Come again for Tea
It was fire-toasted crumpets on a fork,
that used to make my father mutter,
you know, a long spindly three-pronged sort
with the right amount of salted butter
that dribbles down your bosoms’gutter.
The right thing to do in company
is to excuse yourself to the pantry
where there’re napkins in the top dresser drawer.
So, when you come again to visit me
we’ll have buttery crumpets galore.
If you have any comments on this poem, Frances March
would be pleased to hear from you.