After a son’s magical wizardry,
fixing his mother’s gadgetry,
they walk in the sun resplendently,
in order to drink ravenously,
at West Bridgford, after two or three,
their eyes attend, as they do see,
a rather attractive eatery,
The Giggling Squid, just off the green.
They start off, with a bottle of wine,
from a kind Chilean man, off his vine,
they crack their jokes, of what crime,
has made this squid giggle, I don’t know why,
then their eyes scan the menu, about time,
surely after such libation, it’s time to dine,
their decisions are locked in, they’re in line,
but the ginger boy’s worried, he may not be fine.
For upon the card, he saw signs of peppers,
meaning for him, he’ll eat edible weapons,
the mother’s fine, she observes the trekkers,
as she cheekily laughs, at her son’s errors,
my boy, you are as bright, as a man of letters,
but the spice you’ll eat, you’ll be among the lepers,
then the starters arrive, relieving the pressures,
the boy’s fingers crossed, for more pleasures.
The mains are then brought, to lady and kid,
she tucks in, and to her; all is splendid,
the boy takes his bite, the hake hit’s the grid,
but, alas, what he’s been waiting for, break’s his lid,
the fire inside him, becomes truly wicked,
water and sharing occurs, in order to rid,
a biological statement saying, heaven forbid,
this place, should be renamed: The Tingling Squid!