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The Secret Life Of The Wheat Crunchie
Mike Stools
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 ...


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