A SONG OF SIXPENCE

for Adrian Mitchell

A little san fairy ann in every pie, and out it all comes –
thumbs pulling, blackbirds pecking, honey in the
counting house and ladies in their chambers,
a whole folkloric technicolor clusterfuck, snippets
from the nursery archives arriving in droves.

            Fake news in the bakery and true lies in the scullery,
            the pies are full of fingers and somehow smell of roses;
            if the cap fits, wear it, and watch out for your noses.
            The pie was full of flavour, but the salt has lost its savour
            and we’ve grown out of all our clothes.

Kings and queens hung out to dry while the
spoon does a runner with a dainty fishy dish,
down the lane and straight on till morning; black sheep,
white sheep, synch-free mouths, post-ironic animatronics,
a makeshift trickle-feed of shifty shaping.

            Fake news in the bakery and true lies in the scullery,
            the pies are full of fingers and somehow smell of roses;
            if the cap fits, wear it, and watch out for your noses.
            The pie was full of flavour, but the salt has lost its savour
            and we’ve grown out of all our clothes.

Plenty of eating – curds and whey, blackbirds, tarts, honey,
plums, pat-a-cake, pease porridge, profits, planets. Sat in a
corner with a pocket full of porky pies, on a tuffet with a
chamber full of bullets; such a commotion! Who stole some votes
all on a winter’s day, who took them clean away?

            Fake news in the bakery and true lies in the scullery,
            the pies are full of fingers and somehow smell of roses;
            if the cap fits, wear it, and watch out for your noses.
            The pie was full of flavour, but the salt has lost its savour
            and we’ve grown out of all our clothes.

Nick Totton
Picture Rupert Loydell

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