I read Melissa's poem about her porridge pan (previous post). I thought her pan was bit too domesticated, and missed a rich outdoor porridge tradition. I wrote a 'macho' version in response. My attempt to continue the joke.
Porridge Pot
I’m a rugged pot
Me and my spurtle
We come from a heroic time
Of reivers, both English and Scot.
Stealing cattle is no crime
Just a pinch of salt, a few oats
Then my brave men ride without reversal
I’ve no need to be shiny
My battle scars are plain to see.
I’m fine being grimy
It’s more important to charge – or flee.
I despise those non--stick pans
They cannot burn, or make a crust
Nothing for a real man
They’re cowards who you cannot trust.
So when I stand on your induction hob
Porridge bubbling in my iron embrace.
Remember I’m fierce, strong, proud and true
Need to belt a burglar- I’m just the job
Noisy neighbours – they'll soon sob
Little scrotes- I’ll act dead rough.
Treat me right, with respect as due
Then my oats and salt will make you tough.
My poor pan Simon, I feel that your rough outdoorsy type just failed to see the sophistication of my porridge pan. Deep, overly dramatic sigh! I hope that you will enjoy reading Simon's offering. It is very funny (but is it as good as mine!?)

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