Leanne Moden: The Last Dinnerlady Poet

I am the last dinnerlady poet.
I see the youth forcing down the fabulous tripe I serve.
The youth feeling queasy on something I boil or bake. 
The leftover fish pie, the cauliflower surprise
The cold soup with the skins
The fishfingers from tins.

I make things with suspicious lumps
Unidentifiable meat, boiled cabbage in clumps.
I make meals so unappealing
The veg is grey with the sauce congealing.
Jellied sprouts with sauerkraut,
Gravy so thick, you'll need an ice-pick.

Kids, you're so tolerant of my inedible munch
Why not go into town and have a sandwich for lunch?
The kitchen is closed.