Mop up
The teenage tenant of a bedsit flat,
Mopped up his gravy with a soft-bread-roll,
Crammed it all into his pie-hole,
And chewed it like a crocodile,
Gravy dripping all the while,
Down his chin, and on from there,
To his jumper, jeans, and the dining room chair.
He chewed and chewed and when he was done,
He mopped up the rest with another one;
Shovelled it into his maw as before,
And suddenly the dining room door,
Opened and in came his very
Attractive new flatmate, Kerry;
And he, not wanting to appear crude,
Shut up and inconspicuously chewed.
She verbalised an anecdote or two,
Re someone or other they vaguely knew,
And all but deaf to anything said,
Painfully smiling, he nodded his head,
Struggling, with all his might,
To secretly masticate and fight
For breath, in panic and despair;
And as she paused for a breath of air,
He got up and ran to the downstairs loo,
Where, observing his face turn blue,
In the mirror, he made, with his finger, a hole,
In the half-chewed gravy-soaked buttered-roll,
Stuck in his throat, preventing breath,
Blocking his windpipe, threatening death;
He coughed, spluttered, finally breathed,
Went back to Kerry, immensely relieved,
Where, dispensing with all sense of pride,
He told her of how he’d just nearly died.
She listened, wide-open-mouthed as he spoke,
Of how a roll, nigh caused him to choke,
And when he was done, she headed straight,
For the exit, with a dogged gait,
And a groan, which made abundantly clear,
Her disdain, by way of a flea in his ear.
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