Fruitcakes

 

Fruitcakes

 

 

Some boffin’s gone and crossed

a croissant with a muffin,

called it shitzhu, mufftini, something –

pumped the whole thing full of vanilla,

so you can’t taste nothing -

witness Fanny Craddock’s grief,

thrill as your Galloping Gourmet sprays

short slurps on studio floors in disbelief –

he never met a cab he didn’t like,

might order one; take flight.

I saw him platforming, up and down,

not Graham, but another fruitcake,

a sultana short - across his brow

what he thought might make for a fierce frown

rucksacked, like me, T-shirt, too –

anything could happen in the next half hour,

where’s Troy Tempest? That’s him,

accosting other travellers waiting

on the 8.15 from Manchester –

well, Penzance lacks the glamour

and I think, if he packed a hammer,

we’d stand back, plea bargain, submit,

but he hadn’t, just screaming shit

looking the very picture of pain,

as if the world and its people are insane –

lunatics breeding pastry crescents,

Pillsbury Doughboys in want of crust stuffing -

he’s in, out, up, down, tugging his cuffs

grilling those he can’t trust,

winkling them out for a shower of spit –

he’s finding plenty of material

to get to grips with – saves his best bit

for two bearded blokes giving it dap,

because in his head he’s got their backs,

better believe it, buddy –it’s your lucky day.

We’ll shuffle uncomfortable, look away

as though he’s wraithlike, doesn’t exist,

well, that’s the best way to deal with it,

after all, who here can honestly say

he’s wrong? There are some there

who thought Gareth Gates was a neat idea,

watched Mad Lizzie wake up and dance,

and absolutely swear by Lemsip –

it’s either heartsease or heartache

until they think up something else to bake

he’s just trying to ward a world off fruitcake.