A Summer Barbecue
My husband’s cooking barbecue, he says it will be great,
He’s invited all the neighbours, and invited his best mate,
He’s gone shopping for utensils; bought a massive knife and fork,
Some music to add atmosphere – I’m praying they like Bjork,
He’s bought sausages and fillet steak; he only buys the best,
He’s bought a plastic apron; he now sports a pair of breasts,
Fifty cans of lager are all sitting on the side,
He’s swigging one already and his grin is big and wide,
He wanders to the garden, all decked out in new attire,
He rubs his hands with glee “Now...time to light this little fire,”
Fifteen minutes later, and I’m totally amazed,
It’s taken twenty firemen to douse our garden blaze,
And I’m viewing, somewhat differently, the husband I adore,
His eyebrows are all singed; his breasts have melted to the floor,
He holds his fork defensively; convinced he’ll shift the blame,
“It’s not my fault at all; the wind took hold of all the flames,”
But the firemen are all chatting; their words reach me, crisp and clear,
“What idiot poured this petrol on? You get ‘em every year!”
©Jan Jack’s Perfect Verse 2010
