The Last Pea Poem by C Richard Miles

I've chased the last pea round my plate;
It's really something that I hate.
As my pulse quickens, that pulse races;
It makes me pull such awful faces.
That small green sphere, so damned elusive
Rolls right around, quite un-conducive
To stay upon one tine or prong
Of my silver-plated fork for long
And so expletives, so obscene
Won't be squashed till it has been
Entrapped by subtle stealth. By God,
It'll wish it'd never left its pod
And it will know it's had its chips
When it is placed between my lips
But still I chase the dratted thing
Incessantly around the rim.
I'm almost sure the pesky pea
Will be the very death of me
And all my grieving kith and kin
Will say of that which did me in:
If only he had tried baked beans
Instead of petits pois, it seems
This saga, hard to be believed
Would not have left us pretty peeved.