Sunday Dinner At Harry's

Gravy glistened upon his chin
Wine stained lips all aquiver
Anticipating
The sliver
Of beef upon his fork
On his tongue
Medium rare, it melted
And to the Yorkshire pud
Crisp and brown
It slipped down
Most agreeably
Swished with Ruby Cabernet
Glug!
He shilly-shallied between
The carrot and the bean
But decided to spear both
In an obscene
Fashion
And slosh
Another drop of sauvignon
Like the curve of a woman's hip
He slavered over a splendiferous spud
Roasted
Down the gullet it did slip
Chops slapped
As he lapped and feasted onwards
Afterwards
A napkin daintily dabbed
Signalled that he was finally sated
He undid a button or two
And waited

For dessert to come