Don’t need my ‘full English’ served
On a giant rectangular slab
Don’t need a dressed salad garnish
With my bacon, sausage and egg

Don’t need vine-on cherry tomatoes
Give me canned ones in juice instead
And though I’ve scoured this ridiculous slab
Can I **** find a slice of fried bread?!

And where is my builder’s tea?
English breakfast or Earl Grey’s the choice
But cutlery won’t stand up in either
I want Tetley’s, nowt else will suffice

Oh, what has happened
To the greasy spoon?
This ‘N8 Brunch’
Is loony tunes

10 of my squid
For two brittle half rashers
That crumble to dust
When faced with my gnashers

One measly egg
Yet a goblet of beans
Presented as if made
Of priceless things

Resplendent on said slab
In a vessel all of their own
Yet still I detest these things
And deign to leave them alone

And every cuppa you have
Costs an additional fee
No bottomless beverages here
No meal deal where your tipple is free

This wasn’t always the case
But gentrification is setting in
Prices soar, pretension is rife
Poshification of everything

I love London toon
Particularly Crouch End
But I’m northern at heart
And it drives me round the bend

When I’m being ripped off
Taken for a ride
Fleeced and shafted
Hung out and dried

If I pop down the road
To N22
A tenner will buy
Double the amount of food

Might not look as pretty
Might not be as ‘posh’
But at least it’s value for money
Not like detonating your dosh

Middey’s by name
****** by nature
The tiniest of fry ups
Leaves me cold by temperature

A sprinkling of rocket
Is an utter abomination
On a British institution
I can’t afford at this rate of inflation

So b*ocks to the balsamic
You sprinkled on those leaves
That didn’t belong there in the first place
Desist in future, please!

Dispense with the vegetation
The slab that should be a plate
And reinstate the greasy spoon
In my beautiful N8.