It’s not fancy
Marg-a-rine.
Roll the sound, roll
it around and it
sounds like it should,
tastes like it shouldn’t.
A poor man’s butter-
side down?
Cloyed aftertaste
sticks to the roof
of churches and schools,
how bizarre, a bazaar.
’Cept Mrs Effendowicz’s…
Butter wouldn’t melt.
Margarine slides the wedding ring ___ off
the wrong finger
denting pride
for a couple more years.
It’s all just blurb really
and cake.
But that curl on top
of virgin tubs,
deserted expectations
and a baby’s tuft.
This is fun, Kirsty – and how nice to discover a post from you again. All the best, John