‘Words to the Dun King and Queen’
Tea, light brown; poured somewhere between crème caramel and oatmeal in colour, and between water and gruel in flavour; so weak it is, you have to help it into, and out of, the dainty porcelain cup, whose cornfloury decoration is less pinks and blues, more granary hues.
And those Rich Tea biscuits,
that you dip ever so gently into your drink; holding tightly, in case, odd forbid, one should sink, or break up upon re-entry.
Placed to one side, a slice of wholemeal bread laying forlornly upon a cracked-wheat plate,
toasted to within an inch of its knife, and spread so thinly with low-fat, low-taste, low-cost margarine that a feeler gauge would be hard-pressed to measure any depth.
Along with your daily doily lacily, and lazily placed underneath your cup and saucer, being replaced every week;
Chaucer would probably have said:
and the Librarian:
J may have said:
‘blessed are the meek.’
But, your tastes are not mine
So, hide your self
I shall not seek.