Everybody took a slice, then regretted it.
The cake smelt of Christmas, but tasted of anus.
'This isn't a cake at all!' said Lucy,
spitting out hair, mouse bones,
the Rules to Speculation Whist.
But it was, of course -
a government white paper said as much.
It was a cake and everybody had to have some.
Some people ladled on custard.
'That's your solution to everything,' said Lucy,
remembering the fire at the orphanage,
the 10 year affair,
the tinker with his grubby palms outstretched.
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