The Secret Life Of The Wheat Crunchie

I am a Wheat Crunchie 

Made by Golden Wonder. 

Life for me is OK right now, 

Since I was torn asunder. 

 

I lie here in a sealed up bag 

Where I await my fate 

To be savagely devoured 

Or expire my sell-by date. 

 

It’s ironic that I’m bacon flavour, 

(’though it gives me no joy), 

For once I was the foreskin 

Of a little Jewish boy. 

 

Then sold part of a job lot 

With many more like me 

I was freighted to the fateful 

Golden Wonder factory 

 

Then plunged in boiling oil 

Until I went all brittle 

And swollen like a painful sprain; 

No longer soft and little. 

 

Then sealed up in a plastic bag 

And sent to Sainsburys 

Where mothers queue at checkouts 

And their children I’m to tease. 

 

"Oo, mummy, look! Wheat Crunchies!" 

I hear a little boy, 

And judging by his accent 

You can bet he’s not a goy. 

 

"You wicked boy!" his mother cried, 

"You know this snack’s no good. 

It’s from a beast with cloven hoof 

That does not chew the cud." 

 

But as the mother turned to pay, 

The boy’s hand grabbed my packet. 

And deftly as a gull in flight 

He slipped it in his pocket. 

 

Then, home alone, safe in his room 

He opened up my prison 

And what familiar, homely sights 

Befell upon my vision. 

 

For in this place, this very boy 

Had been attached to me, 

And, oh, what games we used to play 

When no one else could see. 

 

I always knew we’d reunite 

I’d had it on a hunch. 

Now, here we are. I’ve made it home! 

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch ... 

 

Poetry

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