(After Shakespeare’s Sonnet XVIII)
Shall I compare thee to a proper cook?
Thou art more surly and more obdurate.
By such rough winds our children’s guts are shook
That summer hols have all too short a date.
Sometime too hot thy curried mince doth taste,
And globs of gristle often blight thy stew.
Thy grease-slick gravy looks like toxic waste,
And rumour says thy custard’s made from glue.
But thy eternal lunchtime shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that scowl thou wearest,
Nor shall inspectors claim thou mak’st the grade,
When none will eat the food that thou preparest.
So long as school’s a place where lunch is bought,
So long liv’st thou, and that gives food for thought.
(c) Helen Lewis 2008