Poem Maple Syrup

Maple Syrup


I was in the supermarket the other day

and I bought myself a bottle of Maple syrup.

It was the cheapest bottle on the shelf

but on the label, it read

that it was as good as any of the other stuff surrounding it.

The bottle looked nice too

it was like a little bottle of whiskey.

The next morning I made myself some pancakes.

I cooked them carefully,

remembering my days as a cook at McDonalds

piled them up and took them into the lounge room

along with the bottle of Syrup.

I poured out a careful amount on each and began to eat.

Then Mary came in

“Did you make me some?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

“You never make me breakfast,” she screamed, “You ought to have made me breakfast.”

“You don’t like pancakes, you like cornflakes.”

“That’s not the point, you never make me breakfast.”

She stormed out.

This syrup was weak

and each mouthful became more and more sour.

“You can have some of mine,” I called, but it was too late.

She’d probably left.