by Timmy the Intern
The man in the grubby apron holds aloft,
the starchy glass, with acid waft,
vinegar scented, hot oil fried,
crunchy outer, fluff inside,
the mainstay inland, by sea or on ships
on planes, in homes, those humble chips.
Served with their battered friend, the fish
a dish of Kings that’s so delish,
with ketchup, tartare or just salt,
without them, I fear, we’d all revolt.
Nothing looks just quite as pretty
as wrapped paper from your chippy.
A bundle, bindle, of nourishment
to ease the bruises of life’s punishment.
Deep fried, battered aquatic beast
and crunchy potato, what a feast.
I’m eating now, so no more I say,
except enjoy National fish and chips day.