In Competition No. 2954 you were invited to supply an ode to a greasy spoon, a challenge prompted by a recent column that Melissa Kite wrote bemoaning the rise of independent cafés and the consequent demise of the decent, non-locally foraged fry-up.
Most of your odes were to a caff, but a few chose to address a greasy piece of cutlery instead. I liked Josh Ekroy’s spin on Keats’s ‘Ode on Melancholy’ and there was nice work, too, from Nick Campailla and John Priestland. The winners take £25; Brian Murdoch pockets £30.

Thou spreadst a breakfast in my sight,
Thy filling grease bestoweth,
O transport caff, such pure delight,
My tea mug overfloweth!

Embryos of a farmyard fowll
Fried in the oil, and shining,
With strips of swine-flesh cheek-by-jowl,
Well crisped, by them reclining,

Fat tubes of offal, fungi too,
And bread of heaven grillèd.
Pulses in sauce of ruby hue,
Plates with black pudding fillèd.

It breaketh fasts and maketh whole,
Full English faileth never.
O grant me thy cholesterol
Upon my plate for ever!
Brian Murdoch

Small wonder that in verse I show respect
To you sweet spoon whose wretched shame I
share,
Washed up in filthy water through neglect
By slipshod students famed for lack of care.
Yet, when you’re dipped in soup, your smeary
touch
Against my slimy bottom thrills me so,
I long for friendly fingers that could clutch
Your slippery form and never let you go.
Dear spoon, though squeaky clean we’ll never be
For lack of Fairy Liquid in our lives,
I feel convinced that you were made for me
In just the way that forks were made for knives.
When cows jump moons and cats on fiddles play
And little canines laugh to see such fun
Perchance with me, your dish, you’ll run away
And we in greasy bliss shall be as one.
Alan Millard

When, plagued by commonsense and rational
thought,
I contemplate the weight of rancid grease
I have consumed in years of breakfasts bought
In Tattooed Brenda’s Caff I never cease
To sense the kiss of death in every plate
Of saturated-fat-fried egg and chips
And all those bits, well past their sell-by date,
Of sausage made from sphincters, ears and lips.
And though her greeting call may sound alarms—
Fuck me, it’s you again! today’s selection —
The LOVE HATE knuckles on her black-inked
arms
Suggest perhaps a half chance of affection.
So, though I know her food is to abhor,
May God tomorrow grant me one plate more;
For nothing else can make a day seem rosier
Than Tattooed Brenda’s greasy fried ambrosia.
Martin Parker

O fat, greasy spoon whom nobody loves
Why did I touch you without wearing gloves?
The substance you ooze when I’m holding you
lingers
Annoyingly, cloyingly over my fingers.
The ghost of your greasiness somehow remains
Resistant to water, like gunge got from drains.
Although you look innocent, knowing no care,
Steeped in your filthiness, all unaware
Of how you repel me, defiled and obscene,
Unfit to be used until you’re scrubbed clean,
You’ll shine like an angel, with sweet cherub face,
When soap suds have pardoned your present
disgrace.
O fat, greasy spoon, debased by our dinners,
Perhaps you resemble humanity’s sinners
Who find themselves soiled, and outcasts from
heaven,
Until they are washed — and then all is forgiven.
Frank McDonald

We’re at some place for fashionable nosh.
We huddle on a fashionable bench.
The food is scanty, messed-about and posh.
The menu is extensive and in French.
The wine is house carafe, the purest piss.
You wouldn’t feed such stuff to a baboon.
Dear God. I can’t take any more of this.
Will someone take me to a greasy spoon?

I want their all-day breakfast just for starters:
Three eggs, three sausages, three streaky rashers,
A fried slice, maybe two, mushrooms, tomatoes,
Bliss for the belly, comfort for the gnashers,
Strong milky tea with sugars, lots of those.
I need my sustenance. I need it soon.
Before sheer famishment turns up my toes,
Will someone take me to a greasy spoon?
John Whitworth

Hail to thee, black pudding!
Hail, hog (as thou wert),
Through my innards rooting,
Blood and oats and suet,
Plotting further padding of the chambers of my
heart.

Hail, young or older waitress —
With two sleeves of tattoos,
Or tight hair, a sedate dress
And thick-soled comfy shoes —
Serving me and other patrons all the fry-ups we
might choose.

Hail, bubble and hail, squeak!
True veg, let none deny it.
May thy hot-grease mystique,
All-day full breakfast diet,
Bless all the wayfarers at all the caffs that fry it.
Chris O’Carroll

No. 2957: Lookist

Keats wrote a sonnet ‘On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer’. You are invited to provide a poem of up to 16 lines entitled ‘On First Looking into [you choose]’. Email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 13 July.

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