My contracting job's ironical perk,
from people who laze in permanent work,
is packets of starch, ordered from high,
that only the starved could willingly buy.

The onion is brown, with papery taint,
the bread could be slime, solid with paint.
The cheese, like the beer from north of the Gap,
seems watery, poor, and passed from a cat.

I'll tell you a secret: at three in the morning
the maker goes creeping with miserly daring,
tiptoeing, ferretting, digging in bins,
searching with caution for horrible things

to put between slices the following day
for which I'm expected to bleeding well pay!

Well I won't!

'Cos I will decide when I go for a ride.

The editor of Krax has kindly scheduled this poem
for publication "fairly soon".