I’ve hardly begun to make good-natured fun
of the vegetable Scots call the neep,
when an errant green pea I’ve ingested at tea
has put paid to postprandial sleep.
Too tiny to chew, it refused to go through
my oesophagus, shot up my nose,
and, just my bad luck, it’s now hopelessly stuck.
I resolve to eat fewer of those.
Unaware of one more that’s adrift on the floor,
I demolish it under my heel,
inadvertently slip, and relinquish my grip
on the plate that I’ve used for my meal.
I land on my back with a terrible thwack,
and – hey presto! – the force of my fall
in a twinkle’s expelled the green pea I’ve withheld.
Now it’s hanging to dry on the wall.
As I lie there appalled at the way I’ve been mauled
by a couple of pesky green peas,
I’m inclined to allege that this dastardly veg
has no business outside the deep freeze.
In a world where it’s rude just to shovel your food
on your fork with the prongs pointing up,
eating peas takes an age. Am I crazy to rage
when my tea’s all but cold in my cup?
If a pea goes astray from the table, okay,
you can look for it under your feet.
But it’s worse when you’re fed mushy peas ill in bed:
the tattoo they designed on my sheet
is a nauseous mess. I’m relieved to confess
I look forward to throwing it out.
I admit my mistake. From tomorrow I’ll bake
thin-sliced turnip to go with my trout.