Off the Menu

This is a poem I wrote in response to Brexit, mostly out of anger at the hypocrisy of people who want to deport EU nationals but still eat in French, Italian, Greek etc restaurants. Who do they think is going to cook all that food for them?


Off the Menu
by Lucy Gabriel

Welcome to the Albion Arms!
Previously the George and Dragon --
he was Greek (George, that is),
so we've reclaimed our sovereignty.

Here's our new menu,
we've changed the jacket from red to blue.
No longer a foreign affair,
we only serve the best of British here.

Pasta, while popular, has no place.
No lasagne, carbonara, macaroni cheese.
Likewise tapas and taster plates.
You'll be pleased to see we've got the EU out.

Curry is counter-cultural.
Chicken tikka masala, born here
but its ancestry is from the colonies.
We don't use seasonings spicier than salt.

We've made changes to breakfast,
the "Full English" isn't quite.
Baked beans are American as apple pie,
tomatoes Mexican, and hash browns, well--

potatoes are a problem.
Originally from Peru,
they've integrated well
but aren't exactly native.

Which means no fish and chips,
bangers and mash, bubble and squeak.
The Sunday roast is missing some trimmings,
don't get me started on the origins of onions.

What's that, not your cup of tea?
Not a problem, we don't serve it here.
There's a reason they say
not for all the tea in China.

Dare the Waves

Since I used up my first rights on the Sea Music anthology for this one:

Dare the Waves
by Lucy Gabriel

At seven
my plastic bucket is full
of stripes and swirls
made bright by sea water.
I chase waves
and build castles
that dry and crumble,
or are washed away by tide,
and build them again.

At seventeen
sandcastles are an exercise
in futility.
The shells have dulled
in a bowl on my windowsill
Too old for bucket and spade,
too self-conscious for swimsuits,
there's nothing to do
but sit in the sun
with sand disappearing
up my butt crack.

At twenty-seven
I only go when it's quiet,
after the crowds,
to walk barefoot in waves
that wet rolled up trousers.
Dog walkers nod and smile,
while I fill pockets with treasures
still damp with sand,
build free-form castles
and dare the waves to take them.