Dear Lard, square white of melting delight,
Ignored sister of whorish butter,
I spread you on my frying pan at night.
Your naughty sizzle, your cheeky splutter.
Know I sizzle too, my Lard, for in the gloom,
I know you’re melting for others’ sake.
The childish bacon, sausage and mushroom,
How I envy their swimming in your wake,
You hold them fully and you make them whole.
Your love is not exclusive, yes, I know,
For I mouthed you once raw in a bowl.
And soon threw you up in the sink, although
I was both sick with love and sick with lard
And my breakfast heart’s forever scarred.