Orit Klein Vartsky

At eve, while sitting on my perch I crave
that salty treat belov' d of all Britons
And would that I could said morsel have
Aye me, t'would be verily fine eating
I speak, for sooth of cod, fried in batter
Accompanied by its faithful friends the spuds
Another meal shall never be better
In summer time, or in winter's black mud
Thy crusty fillets, vendor, thou serveth true
Whene're I ask for fish supper, lo!
Without my weekly fix I goeth blue
So to the seaside wantonly I go.
But Oh, my waistline moans, my weight doth rise
I tell thee, sooth, fish and chips are my demise