Our summer crops are in and larders full
So we are now well stocked for winter’s worst
When we will face freezing Arctic attacks.
Our stock contains dried fruits, roots and nuts
Along with several sacks of grain to grind
To make the flour to bake the daily bread.
And we have pickled veg in pots galore.
Beetroot, onions, shredded red cabbage and
Several jars of yellow piccalilli.
We have some salted meat and some smoked fish.
We’ve flagons of cider from fermented pears -
Sufficient to keep us high for many years.
Once more we‘ll endure wild winter weather.
But now we must have Harvest Festival
To offer our thanks to Mother Nature
For the soil, sunshine and essential rain.
Now it's time to taste this season's cider.
Our summer crops are in and larders full.
they've also got a guest on
who suffers from, the inability to burp
he sounds so bored presenting
the thing
as i listen, i notice
the lid of the jar of the piccalilli
it states this condiment is,
'the life and soul of the pantry'
on google i look up images
of 19th century pantries
my wife comes in and asks what i
would like for xmas
i want a pantry
It can’t have been the scallops,or the rump of Islay lamb,
washed down with white Rioja, and followed by sweet meringue.
It wasn’t the skate au poivre or the salmon canapés,
nor garlic stuffed green olives or the double chocolate glaze.
The ruby red Barolo is surely not to blame
( it was so very very good, we had some more of the same).
The piquant piccalilli that came with the ham terrine
was absolutely to die for. In French, “cuisine sublime”.
The roasted veg in garlic, the rich redcurrant sauce,
all perfectly delicious - and then we passed the port!
Replete we left the table, of coffee to partake,
with a couple of Glenlivets, to sup for old times’ sake.
A perfect evening, then off to bed, to dream of happy days.
‘‘Twas not to be. A sudden waking, with a screeching shout of pain.
The hounds of hell were gnawing at a foot now sore inflamed
and throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.
Relentless, there’s no respite. In purgatory now moaning,
in agony exclaiming, as tormented he writhes about,
“Must be a change in the weather
has caused this devilish gout”.
It can't have been the scallops
Or the rump of Islay lamb,
Washed down with white Rioja
Followed by sweet meringue.
It wasn't the skate au poivre
Or smoked salmon canapes
Nor garlic stuffed green olives
Or the double chocolate glaze.
The ruby red barolo
Is surely not to blame
(It was so very very good,
We had some more of the same).
The piquant piccalilli
That came with the ham terrine
Was absolutely to die for,
In French, "Cuisine Sublime".
The roasted veg in garlic,
The rich redcurrant sauce,
All perfectly delicious -
And then we passed the port.
Replete, we left the table
Of coffee to partake,
With a couple of Glenlivets
To sup for old times' sake.
A perfect evening, then off to bed
To dream of happy days.
'Twas not to be, a sudden waking
With a screeching shout of pain,
The hounds of hell were gnawing
At a foot now sore inflamed
And throbbing, throbbing, throbbing,
In purgatory now moaning,
In agony exclaiming,as,
Tormented, he writhes about,
"Must be a change in the weather
Has caused this devilish gout !"
I know I do this every time I think of you
I end up with a stiff little pickle and in a flipping mess
Now I know you think it’s saucy and like to have a laugh
But I’m the one with spicy piccalilli all over my flaming lap
I relish the challenge in being a pickle in a tight squeeze
For this little pickle marinades himself in honey from a bee
You may think that a pickle and honey wouldn’t go together
But I can rest assure you they are actually the spice of life
A condiment together, and though you chutney sometimes
I always relish dipping my little pickle in your honey pot
Can’t wait to savoury spread your legs and syrup my pickle in
For honey you are the sweetest dessert that there’s ever been.
ps: If you ever need to find me I’ll be in the supermarket isle - savouries and sauces.
I once knew a boy named Billy
I thought he was originally from Chile
Mostly ‘cause he loved his hot sauce and chili
Toting everywhere his jar of piccalilli
It turns out Billy was really the local hillbilly
I should have known, that was really silly
‘Cause Billy craved to barbecue anything chilly
On his boombox would play loudly rockabilly
Going around back roads willy-nilly
And Billy liked nothing girly or frilly
Till that is his eyes fell on fancy Miss Millie
With her exotic palate straight from Piccadilly
At first Billy would get nothing but stares that were grilly
Till he offered Miss Millie a fine thoroughbred filly
She let out a cry that was remarkably shrilly
All she secretly desired was a bouquet of tiger lily
When Billy misunderstood and brought her back a water lily
Seeing through Billy’s shell Miss Millie paused standing stilly
‘Cause Miss Millie was way deep down a wannabe tilly
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on April 11, 2018 for contest HILLBILLIES, BYBILLIES AND BLOWBILLIES sponsored by CAREN KRUTSINGER