Cake

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!!

CAKE

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.