To A Mousse Wee sleekit coorin timorous dessert, Topped with cherries and a fresh cream squirt, I see you tremble with anticipation, As my spoon comes close to your sugar nation. Oh, if ever a pudding could be blessed with legs, Your fragile self but the whites of eggs, And you cannot run as my spoon descends, A lick, a lip-smack, and your life ends. It is no longer a world of mousse and man, But of empty bowl and whipped cream can, So, pudding, reflect on the vagaries of fate, While I lick my spoon and clean my plate.
Posted on: Sat, 25 Jan 2014 12:51:37 +0000