Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Roll“.

Good afternoon Jon, and after a few weeks interlude, greetings, once again, from Coventry.

Slight dose of the change of season blues, as you can probably detect from the Barry White impersonation, so I won’t dally, except to remind everyone that BBQ Day is fast approaching and if you haven’t already, go and get a big marker and scrawl it all over your calendar.

It is not to be missed and a roll will be taken!

One of the prime ingredients of a BBQ, for carnivores at least, is of course, meat

So let’s get rolling

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:

Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse


“Egmont Cass the third, known as “Eggie” to his friends
Departed prematurely, met the stickiest of ends”

A baker by profession, but a warning to the wise
Very little meat found it’s way into his pies

His baking skills were first-rate, according to reports
But “Eggie” was tighter than Warwick Capper’s shorts

Ground up bone and rind filled his famous Bacon Butty
His pasties, pumped with lard, the consistency of putty

Gristle, skin and fat served as “Eggie’s” rib eye waffle
His sausage rolls a blend of stale bread crumbs and offal

The sign outside the shop, like his pastries, rather droll
“Eggie” Cass, Baker – always on a roll

A man of contradictions, and hard to get to know
On one hand he was frugal, always careful with his dough

But the darker side of “Eggie” was one you’d not forget
More than partial to a drink and by God he loved to bet

Horses, blackjack, bingo: even two flies on a wall
And those bloody awful pokies, where you’ve got no chance at all

“I’m on a roll” he’d cry, addicted to the thrill
He was on a roll alright, but the roll was all down hill

Each loss would fuel another bet: each bet another drink
Till his pies were nought but pet food mixed with saw dust in the sink

Plagued by debt, “Eggie” grew more desperate and meaner
If possible, his pies and sausage rolls grew even leaner

Till one night, at the footy club, last coin in the machine
The barman shouted hoarsely, “D 57 Green”

“That’s me” yelled “Eggie”, “Luck has turned, I said it would, you fools”
“Mate, it’s just the meat tray raffle, you haven’t won the pools”

But meat to “Eggie” meant more pies, more pies, in turn, more money
More cash, more bets, another step closer to the honey

With the mind set of a drug dealer, he mirrored their techniques
He could cut his meat, just like crack, and make it last for weeks

But schemes and desperate rarely mix: as poor old “Eggie” found
When he went to claim his meat tray, the meat was running round

A suckling pig, plump and moist: as pig’s go, it was a corker
But it wasn’t coming quietly and who could blame the porker

What found itself in “Eggie’s” wares, was if meat, long dead
He’d have to improvise, he thought, and knock it on the head

He lured it with a stale baguette and locked the bakery door
Chased it with a rolling pin, but couldn’t catch the boar

At last he had it cornered: grabbed porkie in a pincer
But it thrashed and kicked, “Eggie” slipped and both fell in the mincer

“Eggie’s” wife arrived at dawn, her turn to make the pies
Instead of dregs, A-grade mince. Imagine her surprise

She thought “Eggie’s” gone out gambling and left this savoury filling
Little did she realise, the truth was far more chilling

She wrapped it in fresh pastry, gave each a little scroll
“Eggie’s” faith rewarded: he was finally “on a roll”

He would have been delighted; not a scrap of meat was wasted
Customers, unanimous – the best they’d ever tasted

For once a pie to match it’s name, and no liberties were taken
No-one could deny it was truly “Egg and Bacon”

© Copyright 2013 Ian Bland

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