Curried glass noodles may sound heavenly to some,
it may sound divine, but to others it may signify
the demise of all culinary endeavours,
time to heat up a pizza.
I have no comment, lest I never be fed again,
left on the footpath to fend for myself,
to improvise my next meal using
grevillea buds, bottlebrushes and gum nuts.
I could become the famous Bush Tucker Man,
only I would be the Urban Tucker Man,
producing kitchen delights from
people’s unlikely backyards, rummaging through
their mulch to pick up a few tasty morsels.
My restaurant franchise, Urban Grub,
will tip my bank balance off the scale,
profits soaring from the use of ingredients
found around other people’s abodes.
People pay to consume their own gardens
and rave audibly, while I laugh at
the ridicule I have for its brilliance.
My chef’s style arrogance will soar above
anything ever seen, anything ever to have
graced a kitchen with a funny tubular hat.
Chefs around the world will be envious
of my towering pomposity
and cower before me.
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