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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required “And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said. “I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.” He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus. That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice. But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat “You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet, What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl, On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll. “Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see. First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea. “Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here, Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.” “Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door. I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore. I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake, A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake. My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need, I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read, Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour. None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour. There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none, There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one, That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind, Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind. I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank, Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank. I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such. Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much. The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege, When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg. But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat, Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat. The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish. The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish. But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit. You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
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