Pouting sweetly her rouge-red lips, <br />Was this the face that lauched a million chips <br />And cooked the cod for poor young William? <br /> <br />For here what is there out of plaice? <br />No chip on her shoulder or egg on his face - <br /> <br />Lady in the chippie, swinging your hips, <br />With your extra-spicy cookshop dips, <br />Plant me a banger on your lips. <br /> <br />All of your condiments upon me shower, <br />Pour on the vinegar, you'll never sour; <br />You get sweeter by the hour. <br /> <br />I'll stir-fry slowly in your eyes, <br />Oh, mushy peas, cod roes, pukka pies, <br />Bring forth your fresh-cooked breasts of chicken, <br />And replete at last on what I've eaten <br /> <br />I'll think: Helen of Troy, why should she matter? <br />I'd not care if I grow much fatter <br />If me, dear lady, you'd assault and batter.<br /><br />Paul Lester<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lady-in-the-chippie/
