It is 35 degrees outside,
And the head cook serves soup,
And other winter dishes,
Clueless women,
Tasteless grub,
Long, long queue,
To get my fill,
And one dinner lady drops a plate,
And all hell breaks loose,

In an Italian dialect,
That is so low-key,
Naughty, dirty words,
Makes your hair curl,
Don’t know where the words came from,
Just a cloud of chaos,
From you stupid cow,
To a brainless hen,
The sort of insults you hear,
Every now and then,
Well maybe just maybe,
Somebody will lose their job today,
And the broccoli goes flying,
And hits the cook in the face,
Well no harm done,
It is overcooked, sloppy and cold,
And here is the return,
A boiling hot spud,
Now that was a low blow,
To curl the blood!
Here we go with two rotten plumbs,
Swapped back with haste,
With a plate of mash,
Two sausages get thrown in the mix,
It is looking more like the London blitz,
A spoon of pasta with a spot of tuna,
Goes air born and hits the fan,
The poor cashier gets a tomato in the ear,
Picks up the telephone and decides to run,
Slipping on the uncooked cabbage,
Tripping over two rustic olives,
Head first into the freezer he goes,
A clap of thunder to close round one,
It’s a knockout to the dinner lady,
We have already won!
All workers shocked in the canteen,
As glum faced canteen workers start to clean,
Never heard this place so quiet as this,
The food was shit but the atmosphere bliss,
Not normally proud to pay for this tripe,
But the side-show was great lived up to the hype,
And so back to boring work we go,
And the canteen worker who put on the show?
A slapped wrist and a you could do better,
From now on following orders to the letter,
That is it, my report from the impact zone,
Chaos in the works canteen, over and out!
© D.Hobson June 2014