Tag Archives: #Pasty

Medium Pasty

A pasty

for a medium?

Well, who saw that coming?

Oh, yes, the medium did.

The Day a Jackdaw Pinched my Pasty

I’ll always remember the day:

it was a Saturday,

the day

that a jackdaw

pinched my pasty.

“A jackdaw?” you ask,

“Was it up to the task?

It’s normally a gull

that, perceiving a lack,

will snaffle your snack!”

“‘Twas not a gull,

from Looe or from Hull,

that pinched my pasty,

it was a jackdaw,

of that I am sure.

Black and shiny,

sleek and smart,

was the fearless jackdaw

who practiced his art

to take possession of my lunch,

a wholesome pasty,

on which ‘it’ did munch.”

That day has now been circled

on the calendar of my strife,

as a day I’ll remember

for the rest of my life.

My little pasty

I lost my little pasty,

I know not where or when;

I’ll have to buy another one,

to place in my pocket again.

The Seagull Flies

The seagull flies,

and, having flown,

espies a chip, a pasty, scone;

whereupon, said gull calculates the angles

required for a heist,

and gains a Vegan Moroccan pasty,

very tasty, yet quite spiced.


The gull had never heard

of Montezuma’s Revenge –

until now.

And gull pledged to gain his own revenge upon

the silly people whilst the Sun it shone.


So, flying high, it chose its victim

aimed, and released, splattering poor Tim

from Sunderland,

who wore his badge of pride

with warmth inside,

and white-splotched coat

that in the Sun it dried,

forming a new pattern for e’er to be,

of his being a target

at Looe-on-Sea.

A Cornish Pastiche.

A Cornish Pastiche

My poetry is crusty on the outside

and lacking any meaty substance on the inside;

whereas the coating of rhymes,

although flakey at times,

does bear the taking of a second bite.

At night, my words cry out for perusal;

they yearn to be read in the dark;

I try and make things up,

and use all the tricks of the poetic trade…

but I still fill the cup

with warm lemonade.

However, with my poems,

a meal deal you can have;

with a pastiche that is cold,

a side of leftover words that are sad to behold,

and a drink that attracts flys and wasps

(recently flown in from one Stow-on-the-Wold).

I could say more,

but am nervous and unsure,

as to how to end this—

The Day They Invented The Pasty

The Day They Invented The Pasty

It was a day, a sunny day,

(back in who knows when)

a day just like this one,

but with some sun;

when Bill and Bob, upon a job,

did think upon a problem.

“What shall we have…” said Bill,

“… to take our fill?”

“Our fill of what?” said Bob.

“Our fill of lunch,

we need to munch,

it’s been a busy mornin’”,

said Bill.

“Ah!” said Bob, “I’ve thrupence and a bob

(the coin that is my namesake),

what can we buy

for one and three,

have you a sovereign to add to our kitty?”

“A ‘sovereign!’ “ Bill laughed,

“If I but had; but, no, I’ve not, just a tanner got,

perhaps we could buy an ‘ansum pie,

for the riches we haves between us.”

Bob thought for a moment.

“I have an idea.” said he.

“Let’s dig us some swede…

potatoes we’ll need…

and a pound weight of yon lady’s skirt.”

‘Are you right in the head?’

was what, Bill, should have said;

but he didn’t, he thought the idea was a winner;

“And if we are quick,

we’ll be done in a tick,

and have a—!

… thingy for our dinner.”

Neither knew what to call

this new-fangled dish.

and names they tried, one and twenty;

“Let us not be hasty

to name this food oh so tasty;

perhaps we can call it a… ‘BillBob!’ “

said Bill.

“Or a ‘BobBill!’ said Bob.

Anyway, the pasty had been invented,

though it hadn’t a name,

until forty years later

a Mr. C. A. Pasty had an idea

for eternal fame.

(As if anybody remembers him).

‘The Tale of the Pasty-Eating, Man-Eating Seagull

‘The Tale of the Pasty-Eating, Man-Eating Seagull

“I was tied up alongside the quay one day,

when I heard the Coxswain to the Boatswain say:

‘Have you ever heard the tale

of the pasty-eating, man-eating seagull?’

‘No!’ replied the Boatswain,

with wonder did he speak,

‘I haven’t heard that tale at all

but twice or thrice this week;

I suppose I’ve little in the way of choice

but to hear it once again.’

‘Little choice indeed!’ then said

the Captain of the boat,

‘tis only through our telling tales

that we keep this craft afloat.’

‘There was an ancient mariner,

who stoppéthed one of three-

but, he’s not in this torrid tale,

there’s only thee and me.

‘One day, the Saucy Sue set sail

and left our harbour home;

we travelled light,

though it were night,

the salty seas to roam.

Setting out from lovely Looe,

as our want was wont to do,

we left the town aways behind,

it was no good as crew.’

‘You said that well.’

the Boatswain cried,

‘much better than before.’

‘Thank ‘ee!’ said the Coxswain,

‘and now, I’ll tell ‘ee more.

‘For three calm days we had fair wind,

though we were in no hurry,

we plied the straits to Dover,

where we stopped off for a curry.’

‘No!’ Spake the Boatswain,

‘we did there no such thing;

we never ate an Indian,

be he just about to sing.’

‘Quite right!’ affirmed the Coxswain,

‘tis wrong to eat a man;

but, here, this tale, it comes to tell

of a certain fair and foul seagull,

who had a different plan.

It was the pasty-eating, man-eating seagull,

of which this tale is all about.

He lived in Dover harbour,

of that there is no doubt;

for I once met him late at night,

upon a lonesome pier;

and if he hadn’t eaten me,

by God, I would be here.’

‘Are you a ghost?’ The Boatswain asked,

‘For, if you are, I be afeared of thee!’

‘No. Calm thee down,

I am just a sailing man,

who loves his old pasty;

could a ghost eat one like this?’

In one gulp he ate it so;

the Boatswain then gasped out, ‘I believe it – No!’

The Coxswain put his mind to sail,

and canvas was set true;

the Boatswain gathered up the ropes,

as Boatswains often do.

“About this gull…?’ the Boatswain said

‘Did it really eat up men,

and make the living, dead?’

‘Indeed it did, and it still does,

it has a hunger great;

it preys on men eating pasties;

and lures them to their fate.’

The horror on the Boatswain’s face,

as the Coxswain told the tale,

was a site to behold;

the Boatswain turned old,

and his hair went gray,

as the Saucy Sue went calmly on her way.

The Coxswain told of many men,

who had all breathéd of their last,

victims of the hungry gull,

‘… who now perches on our mast!’

Aghast, the Boatswain lookéd up,

and aloft did spy the bird;

ill omens seemed to gather there,

as the evil gull took wing to air;

and the Boatswain felt inside

a hunger newly stirred.

‘I must eat a pasty!’

from his mouth,

beneath his breath,

the fatal words were heard;

with a pasty in his hand,

a bite so nearly taken,

and, the Boatswain was so close to death,

at the hands of a seagull, God-forsaken.

Then he bit down, the Boatswain did,

and tasted Cornish Heaven;

the gull did swoop,

all cock-a-hoop,

and ate them both,

the sailor, and his vittles,

‘Oh, Devon!’ the Coxswain swore,

and then he swore a few words more,

at the strange and fearsome sight,

that the written (spoken) word here belittles;

‘twas a sad and fateful night.

The Coxswain and the Boatswain

will sail the seven seas forever,

the Saucy Sue’s a ghost ship now,

and where’er she goes

a sailor knows

she bringeth stormy weather.

The moral of this tale, my friends, is this:

‘Never put to sea

with ghosts as crew;

and, from Dover to Looe,

of pasties do not touch;

for if you do,

it’s the end for you

for as you bite,

there will be

another bite,

the bite of the pasty-eating, man-eating seagull,

who bids you to join his number,

and suffer the fate

of the Coxswain and his mate,

to forever sail the salty seas and never, ever slumber.’ “

Ate My Pasty!

Ate My Pasty!

That seagull,

over there;

the one with the smirk on his face,

ate my pasty!

I only looked away for a second,

and he reckoned that that was time enough – it was;

because, when I looked back,

my pasty bag was empty!

What a numpty am I.

The Seagull Espies

The Seagull Espies

A seagull espied my pasty today;

I saw him; then he saw me, he looked away;

he circled around to take me unaware;

but, I, my pasty, was unwilling to share, so I followed his path,

kept a watch on his place;

he thought for a while,

then a smile came to his face –

and he flew off.

A minute later, there was a cough

right behind me, I turned to look,

a decoy, I beheld, the oldest trick in the book;

and there was my pasty,

gone, in the blink of an eye –

and the two hungry seagulls

laughed, and I did cry.

Pasty Party

Pasty Party

They held a Pasty Party,

but nobody came;

the flyers said ‘Party Party,

which really isn’t the same.