In Sandy On a Sundy

In Sandy on a Sund’y Can’t even buy a pie The High Street is a ghost town From some Kafkaesque sci-fi. Not a single caf is open No point in asking ‘Why?’ So I’ll just go down To the Rose and Crown And give their roast a try. The film set has now altered To a Sergio Leone The barman with the hang-dog look Is sitting all alone. I enquire after Sunday Lunch His reply comes Brummily spoken. ‘No food today, I’m afraid to say. The chef’s right arm is broken.’ So homeward I trudge To a can of stodge That I’d been keeping handy And I curse the day I decided to stay In this Sabbath-subserving Sandy.