An ode to pâté

(This poem is not guaranteed 100% fresh. Consume at own risk. Product of a hormonal mentalist).

Oh pâté, I love you, so smooth and so creamy,

Whenever I scoff you, I go a bit dreamy,

I missed you the whole time I was up the duff,

And now Flumpy's out I just can't get enough.

You could be the posh stuff or economy kind,

Made from hooves, bums, and nostrils, I really don't mind.

I'll spread you on toast, or a crusty white roll,

Then shove it all quickly straight down my gob hole.

I know you're just meat paste with a poncey French name,

But I would still love you without froggy fame,

You're better than Stilton, more thrilling than Brie,

I'll eat you for breakfast, for lunch and for tea.

Ok, you may harbour some nasty listeria,

But now I'm not suffering from pregnant hysteria,

I find all those warnings just quaintly ironic

I would scoff you if you carried plagues bubonic.