Tuesday, 15 March 2011


I remember being a girl in Lancashire. It was a happy, happy time! I was of the rosy cheeked variety of child, a little on the plump side I think, but that could just be my poetic memory playing tricks on me.

Oh, and how I remember the bakeries. In fact, happily, one still exists in the village where I grew up. Every time I go to visit my parents I make sure I visit the bakery to keep my memory refreshed. No one makes cakes like that!

Todays poem was written from the perspective of a 7 year old Lancashire lass. I hope you like it!!


It weren't the very biggest, or the one with all the cream,
It weren't the one with icing, like a sculpture makers dream.
It weren't the one with marzipan or jam or strawberry flakes
But what it were, it were the cake he gave me by mistake.

'Cause what was this he passed across the counter like a twit?
Where was the sticky chocolate sauce I'd dreamt would cover it,
Where was the soft, warm sponge inside, where were the chocolate chips?
What sad and sorry disappointing anti-cake was this?

Not even one sad cherry sat upon it's flattened top
Where once the cherry'd sat was now a grubby, yellow spot,
And nowhere was there evidence of almonds or of jam
Just a dry and crumbling biscuit sat offending in my hand

'But Mr, that's the one I want, that strawberry chocolate one,
The one with all the icing, look, that lovely, sticky bun!!
Please take this back, it's horrid and think I see a hair
I really couldn't eat it if the cat has been back there!'

He looked at me with pity, I could see it in his face
He looked and me and then I knew I'd made a big mistake
With only 50p to spend such choice was but a lie
That's why the cake I left with was a badly made mince pie.

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