Flaming Christmas Fare

 

 

The flaming pud was always a hit

With our dog, my brothers and me

Filled with spices of exotic hue

We never quite knew just how to behave,

How to control that unstoppable crave

For the unctuous mound

Round and shiny, like the over-fed hound

Who was always to be found by our knee

 

With pleading eyes and resident flea

Our hound simply lost his mind

As mum emerged with the flaming feast

The beast, having not yet dined

And in need of refuelling

Emerged drooling from beneath the table

And launched himself like a doodlebug

Casting flaming pud into shag pile rug

 

People yelped in disbelief as pud and rug embraced

The flaming mess set rug alight

And try as we might with flailing feet

And frenzied waving, the flames increased

As all attempts at saving the day

Went the way of disaster, our hopes

Of scoffing flaming mound dying faster

Than our urge to strangle the hound

 

The moral of this tale is clear

When drooling over Christmas pud

You should never allow a slobbering hound

Within bounding distance of grinning mum

As she enters the room with glorious fare

Soaked in flaming brandy

Always keep handy, when hope is waylaid

A means of summoning the fire brigade