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Kate Rancid



There was a knock upon my door
as I laid me down to rest.
I tried but I could not ignore
the knock so I got dressed.
I made my way towards the sound,
its urgency grew greater,
and when I opened it I found
a short Italian waiter.

"I have here pizza, nice and hot,
and garlic bread supreme!
A calzone filled with cheese
beyond your wildest dream!
A fresh lasagne in a box;
it's tastier than sin!
And I'm going to eat it all myself
if you don't let me in."

I stood there for a minute
while my sleepy head awakened.
Then I told the little waiter
he must surely have mistakened
me for someone else;
perhaps a vicar or a Rasta,
someone who was peckish
and had phoned up for some pasta.

Well the waiter grew irater.
He was starting to turn pink.
He said, "I am not a take-away!
My God, what must you think?
I don't deliver pizzas
to just anyone you know.
Now let me in and let me get
this nosh-up on the go."

Bewildered and yet hungry
I opened up the door.
A little man he really was;
he was only 5 foot 4.
The piles of pizza boxes
were bigger than the man.
He said there were some more
when we had finished (in the van).

We stayed up for an hour
and stuffed ourselves with food,
and then he said "I go now.
To stay so long is rude!"
And up and off he toddled
and took his boxes too,
and first thing in the morning
I did a great big poo.

Kate Rancid (b. 1973)