I spied with my little eye
a wonderful, toothsome small porcine pie.

It sat on the table alone and forlorn
the shopping it came with was mostly now gone.

All put away neatly in cupboards or fridges
this little pork pie was a gift beyond riches.

For I in my hand had a pint of good cider
and a pork pie accompaniment just could not be nicer.

So without telling or asking or just letting on
one moment it was there and the next it was gone!

With larcenous intent and appetite keen
I ate the small pie without being seen.

But stupid I am because the small pie was missed
and the lady that brought it was understandably pissed.

Not just cos I stole this scrumptious delight
not just cos I ate it tucked out of sight,

but because she had missed it and searched high and low
in cupboards and pantry and fridges galore.

No sign of the pie, not even a crumb
until she asked that fat greedy bum

who sitting alone in a garden nook
with a empty pint glass and a guilty look.

A look made more guilty by the bits in his beard
of a pork pie consumed and now disappeared.

With a look so disdainful and foot stamping rage,
a sight he’d not seen in very a long age.

His dear wife let into him and gave him what for
and told him, quite rightly, no pies any more.

And now because of this gluttonous sin
every pie counted out will be a pie counted in.

So I hang my head guiltily and vow I’ll never again
nick any pie no matter where it has lain.

For all pies are now are sacred that I must not take
Gods help me if she ever looks for the cake!

On Sunday Isobel and I went shopping.
Such an ordinary pleasure, each with our own trolley, loading it with the essentials of life.
Hers with tins of tomatoes, fruit, other staples of the larder and of course a vast quantity of industrial strength lavatory paper and a small pork pie.
Me, well my essentials tend to hover around the booze isle, plus tonics of course and a few toothsome delectation’s such as French sausage, cheese and other exotic if somewhat smelly edibles.
We arrived home at about two o’clock, unloaded our trophies and relaxed.
Me with a pint of cider and Isobel scurrying around putting all this provender away.
I wandered into the garden to take in a bit of Autumnal sun and as I passed through the kitchen I espied a small pork pie, looking lonely and uncared for.

The rest is history and I hang my head in shame…….