Carried through many nations and over Gage Roads
You arrived, bruvva, to be squashed in Shenton Park
So I present you with a herby tribute of death
And speak in vain to your pasta dishes
Your fortune has carried you, yourself, on a plank
Alas, poor bruvva, your pans are non-stick
Now in the ministry, nevertheless, these things which in the custom kitchen of ancestors
Are pan-fried tribute to no more bites
Receive, organic sauce dripping, leaves from sweeping
And forever, bruvva, hale and pukka.


(With apologies for any inconvienience to Catallus).