Fish and Chips Wrapped In Newspapers

Fish and Chips Wrapped In Newspapers

Wrapped in print, still hot to hold

salted steam and vinegar bold

chips all fat, no scraps in sight

bit of bread, a can of Sprite

Friday treat since I were small

Mam said aye, you’ve had it all

cod so crisp you crack the skin

flaky white and grease round chin

Queue’s a line from shop to road

folk in fleeces, damp and cold

hip young lad with piercings bright

chucks the haddock left and right

Peas in tubs, them mushy green

curry too if you’re that keen

cash in hand, no fuss, no lies

smell of oil and heaven flies

Lick the fork, then lick your lips

nothing beats good fish and chips

and when it’s right, the paper’s thin

ink half-smudged across your grin