Thursday, 27 February 2014


This is a very silly sonnet, and I make no apologies for it! The idea was suggested by Charlie D. (Her obsession with a certain egg-shaped confection is getting out of control. We will be staging an intervention soon.)

I sniff out my target, up there on the shelf.
Check no one's looking, then sneak up real close.
I know that I'm drooling, in spite of myself,
I'm sweating and shaking: this is really gross.

I take down my treasure and peel off the foil,
Devour the shell and extract all the goo.
Just for a moment, I feel almost royal –
If you'd tasted heaven, you'd feel that way too.

My fingers are sticky, my face is a mess.
I started with one, and then two, and then ten.
Now I've got chocolate all over my dress;
I won't be allowed back in Lidl again.

Don't feed me Bounty or Boost or a Twirl.
I am what I am – I'm a Creme Egg girl.


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