So please bear with me, enjoy my poem, and forgive the fact that I've outstripped the word count by A LOT!
In my defence, I am in the throes of packing up to relocate from Tenerife to England after fifteen years, and my head's up my ****!
Thanks as always to https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ for the photo prompt -
My Dad has a chip stall right outside the Tower
– of London, you dolt, not Blackpool –
and now I can actually see over the counter
I help out sometimes after school.
The tourists will stop for two quids-worth of chips
– “London prices,” Dad says if they moan –
and some of them want them wrapped up in The Times
instead of a grease-paper cone.
Mum’s batter is made with the very best beer
and is famous throughout London town –
a few TV chefs have offered a fortune
but Mum won’t write anything down.
Some weekends the queue to see the Crown Jewels
can stretch for a very long way –
Dad turns on a fan to waft out the smell
and we turn a good profit those days.
Last Sunday I wanted to watch the procession,
but Dad said the Queen’s Jubilee
would bring in the cash and he needed my help –
I could watch it that night on TV.
So there I was, serving the ketchup and salt,
when the whole queue went quiet and still,
and That Voice said, “Those chips smell delicious – We really
must have some - please send Us the bill.”
Mum curtsied and Dad took his cap off and bowed;
“On the house, Ma’am – I couldn’t charge You.”
So I salted Her Majesty’s chips - and took a quick
photo to prove it was true.