I met this chef called Alfie Setter
Said that he would treat me better
Bet that boyfriend couldn't compete
With what he'd make for me to eat
He had this spaniel dog called Pete
And a sickly looking parakeet
The parakeet he'd taught to talk
And we could take Pete for a walk
Walk in the park, that's what he said
He let Pete shit in the flower bed
Ensuring me he wasn't a scoundrel
He'd just had a fight with the local council
Because Pete's howling made such a din
They now refused to collect his bin.
His favourite film was Gunga Din
Or anything with Cary Grant in
But his response was fucking crippling
When I asked if he liked Rudyard Kipling
He got upset and began to bake
He thought I'd meant the fucking cake
Mr Kipling; Sayers, Hurst's or Gregg's
He wished them all were fucking dead
Couldn't manage a pasty, he said
Or sausage rolls, doughnuts or bread.
I think I might have upset him a bit
When I said I couldn't give a shit
About this anti-corporate disclosure
Because then he lost his damn composure:
All he wanted was mainstream exposure
Before his restaurant suffered foreclosure!
At this point I thought I'd take my leave
And just so he didn't misconceive
When I told him he should fuck off
I challenged him to a chilli cook-off
And while his was admittedly divine
When it came round to tasting mine
He was heard to indignantly opine
That he'd found several dog hairs entwined.
And that was when poor old Alfie Setter
Started and couldn't stop spitting feathers!
Literally! Because, as you might have guessed,
I'd killed and cooked his fucking pets.
I got a court summons in the mail
But I didn't get to go to jail
Granted a modicum of legal immunity
By the gratitude of the local community
They thought I was completely sublime
For getting rid of that fucking canine.