Chip Shop Woman

On Fridays and Mondays
and sometimes on Sundays
I enter your chamber of grease

The waft of your Haddock
lures me from my paddock
to lands of chip butties and cheese.


I stand with the monkeys
Their breaths laced with scrumpy
Their beards full of baccy and porridge

They leer at your apron
and fondle their bacon
as you flour and batter their sausage.


My fetish is fishy
by the look of your lippy
you put make up on with a trowel.

You're sweaty and salty
You can't make a Balti
and all your fried chicken is foul.


I hear you've got hobbies
getting oily with squaddies
who admire your fondness for sod

They say that you're kinky
why go out for a chinky
when you're up to your armpits in cod.


You do not serve pastries
but I think you're tasty
your patties are bulbous and shapely

I dream of you kittles
with mouth full of fritters
and baps smeared with curry and gravy.


My addictions consuming
but I hear that you're moving
to the Take-away just round the block

I can't say I'm pleased
for they do not serve peas
and you can't fry a fish in a wok.


I will miss your flush face
and the smell of this plaice
that will linger for days on my clothes

But enough of this ballad
Now I'm switching to salad
So it's farewell my sweet chip shop rose..



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