It's Still Life

A Chip, We Cried

The French cried “Mais non! We made pommes frites!”
But history winced and called them twits.
For Belgium fried the golden wand,
In oil so deep, so rich, so fond.

They claimed the name, those saucy Gauls,
While Britons munched in seaside stalls.
“A chip,” we cried, “not frites, you fool!”
Then wrapped them hot in yesterday’s spool.

And Danes, (oh bless!) they take a bun,
Then pickle beets and call it fun.
Their Viking pride, with meat and root,
Forgets the red and swaps the fruit.

So who first sliced the humble spud,
Then flung it in a bubbling flood?
The Belgians smile, the French retort,
But we Brits know it’s chippy sport.

So next you sup your fish and chip,
With vinegar stung and greasy lip,
Just raise your fork and toast the lore,
Of chip-shop myths and kitchen war.

Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.