A Writer of Sorts
Tottering on the stub and clack,
my Mum, replete in navy slacks,
ushers us to Davy’s van
to buy us fish and chips.
The salt and fat and ketchup packs
The chips and scraps; the batter cracks.
There’s pickled eggs in acid vats.
They’ll never pass my lips!
We feast on grease and haddock that’s
a thruppence ha’penny heart attack.
Every summer coming back
To Davy’s Van-On-Sea.