In the days when I was young I tangled with great bunches
Of nasty bugs that lurked inside our daily so-called lunches.
Mondays brought us stone-cold pizza, any kid’s first pick;
Ours was like a mouldy pie, pure poison plastered thick.
Tuesdays, it was meat loaf, topped with something brown −
Once I took some home with me, and Rover turned it down.
What kind of meat it may have been, that really didn’t matter,
Spam with lumpy gravy, even cat food on a platter.
Midweek, I still remember, was spaghetti, with a meatball,
Hard enough if fired to punch its way right through a wall,
Served up kind of sloppy as a nauseous casserole −
Dangerous to eat, it, upset stomach by the bowl.
Thursdays meant fried chicken, which was worst of all by far,
Grease enough to lubricate a rusty foreign car.
Fridays it was always fish, yes, salmon I’m afraid,
Freshly from the freezer after only one decade.
Now, many long years later, all my clothes are very tight
From eating gourmet food on almost every single night.
Forty pounds is hard to lose, that is the general rule,
So I’ve arranged for carry-outs of meals from my old school.