Dinner For Stew 

There was once a day, when I tried to dine,

At a restaurant, quite the fav’rite of mine.

I gazed at the menu, so many morsels,

Many of which I had eaten, of coursels.

I go there all the time.

                                 

So imagine my shock when I looked at the papers -

Covered in catfish and carrots and capers -

And saw a new dish, a fancy one too,

That reminded me of something like vegetable stew…

Only it had chicken in it.

So I thought to myself, well come on now,

How bad can it be? It’s food, it’s chow.

All food is good; it’s delicious, divine,

And soon it’ll be in this tummy of mine.

Or someone else’s. It depends.

But then I heard the mating call

Of my favourite meal, oh damn it all.

I cannot decide; the new or the old?

To risk it with novel or sure it with gold?

It’s always rreeaally hard to choose.

Damn this, damn this, and damn it again,

I called up the waiter with his pad and his pen.

“I’ll have #20,” I declared with a flourish,

“I don’t give a fig if it turns out to be rubbish.”

He gave me a weird look.

When they brought my meal out, ten minutes past,

I stuck my fork in, to break my short fast.

The coating was fresh, and the meat was well done,

The whole plate just screamed of good flare and good fun.

But it tasted like crap.

Bollocks to this, I’d made the wrong choice,

I almost gagged right there, but I soon found my voice.

“This cannot be!” I screamed to the sky,

“I should have gotten that great shepherd’s pie!”

That was when the manager asked me to leave.

So I went home in shame, with all eyes upon me.

And I wondered, the whole time, how did I not see?

I should have stuck with my favourite, one I knew I would like.

But instead what I chose almost made me go on hunger strike.

I ended up getting Macca’s.