I can hear the ducks.
They're outside my van,
quacking, and I am
thinking on the twats
that want to roast them.

But my mind is lost,
I think lost in those years
of flamboyant chefing
when all was flame seared
or chilled by ice smoking.

And now it seems
all are plastic bagging
and bathing in low heat
food that they're thinking
we'll want to eat and eat...

Well, not me mate,
meat's not for my plate.
I see boil in the bag
as a posh nosh fad
and it's one I don't rate.

Just like a trio of cakes
or that nouvelle cuisine,
fate so marked those.
Those restaurants are closed,
so old school food scene.

I say, and I say it large...

Fuck your fine dining
and gastronomy
though fine veggie flavours
I'm happy to see.
And take your water bath,
your ice cream machine,
your Italian espresso maker,
your juicer from Berlin.
I'm not happy
with these utensils,
you see,
I have nightmares
in which I vision clearly 
the soon to be someday
when they
will be eating me...