R
Robert Harrison
Guest
To those who love(d) their Black Pudding
See Factories and Offices
A TRUE STORY
Of Celtic Origin thou didst cross thy boundaries,
And did in purposeful stealth and all intention
Bring to the unsuspecting English low counties,
A pudding, brewed in the cauldrons of creation.
Black as the night that spawned its virgin birth.
Suet and Oatmeal fresh from our mother earth
Red as the blood from that given through sacrifice.
Blended with Cayenne, Nutmeg and mixed spice.
Encased in the membrane of that which gave blood.
Delicately served, symbolic to those so favoured
To stand in revered reverence where Kings have stood
With their Knights and ladies and all so favoured.
Thou Black Pudding, delicate to the pallet of Royalty and
Nobles alike, have been the envy of those who could but stand
And with deep breath, inhale thine aroma, and in awe but look
Upon thine unblemished form and eat of the flesh of some
Poor Chook.
For downward ran the blood freely given by the dying heart
Of those, which gave of their lives having neither say nor part
In their death, but in subjection alone only to the demanding,
In lust for their delicious and heavenly Celtic Black Pudding.
See Factories and Offices
A TRUE STORY
Of Celtic Origin thou didst cross thy boundaries,
And did in purposeful stealth and all intention
Bring to the unsuspecting English low counties,
A pudding, brewed in the cauldrons of creation.
Black as the night that spawned its virgin birth.
Suet and Oatmeal fresh from our mother earth
Red as the blood from that given through sacrifice.
Blended with Cayenne, Nutmeg and mixed spice.
Encased in the membrane of that which gave blood.
Delicately served, symbolic to those so favoured
To stand in revered reverence where Kings have stood
With their Knights and ladies and all so favoured.
Thou Black Pudding, delicate to the pallet of Royalty and
Nobles alike, have been the envy of those who could but stand
And with deep breath, inhale thine aroma, and in awe but look
Upon thine unblemished form and eat of the flesh of some
Poor Chook.
For downward ran the blood freely given by the dying heart
Of those, which gave of their lives having neither say nor part
In their death, but in subjection alone only to the demanding,
In lust for their delicious and heavenly Celtic Black Pudding.