Monday, February 6, 2017

Black Pudding

There’s black pudding 
On my plate!
I refuse to eat
Such a horrid thing.

Mum says I have to.
I prod it, I poke it
And cover my nose.
Again I say no.

I’d rather eat a slug
Or a grain of sand.
Black pudding is yuck!
I’d rather eat grass.

Mum threatens and shouts,
But I stay strong.
In the end she gives up
And tells me to go.

I have won this battle,
but won’t celebrate.
I wonder, I think…
What dinner will bring.

Snails? Rotten potatoes?
Macaroni with ants?
Fried spiders and bees?
I must wait and see.





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