How to Murder a Sunday Roast

How to Murder a Sunday Roast

Get up late, no apron, no shame,

the meat’s still frozen, blame the game.

Peel the tatties if they dare

to roll off worktops, curse and swear.

Shove the bird in, hope it’s dead,

baste with lager, scratch your head.

Smoke alarm’s your only guide,

gravy’s stuck to last week’s pride.

Carrots limp, like hopes in June,

Yorkshires sink like a bad balloon.

Stuffing’s black, the mash is glue,

sauce explodes in shades of blue.

Table set with chips instead,

“Where’s the roast?” the children said.

You hand out plates, you pour the wine,

“Best I’ve made,” you boldly lie.

No one speaks, they chew with care,

one tooth gone, but no one dares

to question art or stab your pride,

not when they want to stay alive.

Then Grandma mutters with a grin,

“Next week love, we’ll order in.”