Brown Sauce

You do not do
You do not do, any more, brown goo
Slathered on tatters of pig
You fall in fruity, faecal glugs
Like dysentery mixed with shampoo

We've had to kill you '
There's more to English cuisine
Than hog hearts steeped in lard
And fish finger stew
Since the Empire expired
We've learned a thing or two

Like
It's not about gobbling turkey
And roast tatties till you split
It's not about the weight
And girth of your shit
After fistfuls of offal
Donkey-ear pies
Goat testes swimming in warm ale
Eccles cakes coated in flies
And those slobbering
St George's cross-eyed fatties
May call us cynics
Cos our breakfasts aren't
Scraped from the bins
Of abortion clinics

But last time I checked
Being patriotic
Didn't equal being a fat gormless fuck
Last time I looked
Cooking up a storm
Was less than tantamount to regicide
And veggies being blanched, not fried,
Don't mean that Merry England's died
He used those spuds for sag aloo!
Alas! Alack! O what to do?

Ask food, not God, to save the Queen!
A smorgasbord of world cuisine!
Bring on Moroccan, Thai, Tex-Mex,
Combine them like they're having sex,
On beds of South Korean fare,
With whiffs of Gallic herbal flair '
Italian, German, Irish, Greek,
Malaysia, Fiji, Mozambique '
An international jamboree
A feast to taste and smell and see
And England as a global hub
A motley paradise of grub
With chefs, who like colossi stand
Astride our green and pleasant land
Creating dishes so divine
That earth and heaven intertwine

And butty-eating swine
Are herded, grunting, into the sea
Drowning on pilchards
And brine

There's a stink in the country's kitchens
We always knew it was you
You do not do
You do not do, any more, brown goo
Daddies,
Daddies, you bastard,
We're through