Runny Egg And Chips Poem by Mark Heathcote

Roadkill was a good grub when I was a kid.
Believe me; it beat baked beans on toast
or runny egg and chips. Generally, it'd
consist of a pheasant or two, or maybe
an old plump rabbit that'd find its way
into a pearl barley cider liquor stew.

It'd have flavour, that's for sure.
Generally speaking, it wasn't by accident.
The brakes didn't go all out or even-on
and the driver didn't suddenly blackout.
This was precision driving, with accuracy
in a red Mini-Cooper - going hell for leather.

Rounding a blind bend in the road with a waterfall
into top gear on a three-mile home straight.
Disappointment would come at the end.
If nothing lay dead in our wake. And we'd returned
empty-handed to whatever was cooking on the grate
like half a dozen chestnuts in the fall of 1978.