How bourgeois to be eating oysters,
shelling prawns, barramundi melting
in the mouth, but always accompanied
by the great British delicacy,
the deep fried chip, the Proletariat,
the common man at the table.
It’s like a group of builder’s labourers,
wearing steel capped boots
and dirty white T-shirts
mistakenly invited to the Duchess’s tea party.
Everyone laughs at the course humour
to a point where having too much
begins to lay heavy on the stomach.
Then one returns to the delicate texture
and taste sensation of a freshly opened oyster,
the pearl in the ocean,
whilst the plate of chips growls at the rest of the party
for being ignored, no longer tolerated.
Too much of a naughty thing
no longer feels like a good thing.
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