Behold, the Queen of Desserts!
I survey her pastry crenellations,
And savour sights of rich, baked fruit.
The smell arouses me to assault,
Pouring custard on that I will devour,
Using spoon instead of trebuchet.

Hail the Pukka, king of pies,
Full of pig snouts, gravy, dicks and eyes,
I think I would rather spew
Than take a bite out of you
One taste would lead to my demise.

The Sacred Pickled Egg,
How perfect art thou in your form.
A kiss on thy boiled albumen,
Reveals the feast of vinegar within.
A bite here, a bite there,
Exposes the golden treasure,
And with a final act of consumption,
I verily scoff the rest of it.

There it was,
Cloaked in flame,
The highlight of December,
A fruity nutty Christmas pud,
The finest I remember!

Oh, birthday cake of yesteryear,
Through nostalgia, often seen.
By my mother, she asked a colour,
Without a pause, I answered "Green!"

Sitting there, upon a platter,
I nearly stopped to ask advice.
For it seemed of standard hue,
Until revealed, in the first slice!