Allotment Onions
Pungent odour, a Frenchman cries,
Bulb flavored burgers, or rings with fries,
 Here they’re safe on the allotment shed
Hanging out in a brownish red.
A Norfolk patch, a scrumper’s heaven,
Hasty retreat from eleven to seven,
Something to do with sweat of the brow,
It’s good for them, the here and now.
If you look too hard you’ll see a mess,
If you look ahead you’ll be impressed.
A spade’s a spade, your back’s in pain,
 Hardly alive, but there’s thrift to gain.
So peel the layers, stuff the bird,
 Ears to the fence, an idle word,
The soil is good, the chickens lay.
The British toil, the Spanish stay.
©Philip Holden
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