The meals they haunt the walls and floors,
It gives me angina and shivers.
The meals they lurk in stalls and doors,
They stalk the moors and rivers.

I hear the cod and hear the crisps,
And fear their cruel and dreadful deeds.
I sense the steak and sense the chips,
And know how they must ache to feed.

They pierce the belly of the dark.
The ghosts of meals past.