Monday, 27 October 2008

The Pie

I think that I shall never spy

A poem lovely as a pie,

A banquet in a single course

Blushing with rich tomato sauce.

A pie whose crust is oven-kissed

Whose gravy scalds the eater's wrist.

The pastie and the sausage roll

Have not thy brown mysterious soul;

The dark-hued Aborigine

Is less indigenous than thee.

Like Phillip Adams rich and chubby,

Tasteful as Patrick White,

With an ice-cold Carlton stubbie,

You're the Great Australian Bite.


Barry Humphries



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