Another tongue-in-cheek poem, this time from the pen of George White
Where’s Me Pasty?
The Cornish Police were short of men and short of women too
Tre, Pol and Pen, three gallant ‘men,’ all dressed in navy blue.
The sergeant said, “Now stand up straight and listen to me proper.
Each of you, must learn just how, to be a useful copper.”
“A crime has been committed here; a felony quite nasty.
I don’t know why, but someone sly, has gone off with me pasty.
Of all the things he could have took, ‘e chose me one great beauty.
And I call you three, Pol, Pen and Tre to carry out your duty.”
“I have to have n back ‘ere soon, or me stomach will be achin’.
I can’t survive, and stay alive, without me wife’s ‘ome bakin’.
She’s done me well, as you can tell; p’rhaps slightly over fed me.
With one a day, in ‘er special way, ever since she wed me.”
Our trio brave took on the job, all keen on commendation.
“See, to start the task, we need to ask, for a little hinformation.
Now, was the pastry plain or flaky or was it rather speckly?
If we da know its look, then by the book, we’ll return n to ee dreckly.”
So off they went, Pol, Pen and Tre to find the sergeant’s dinner.
To make him pleased, with anger eased, and to stop him gettin’ thinner.
They searched the district high and low, neath every stone and brick.
This case was tough and with no success they went back to the nick.
The sergeant said, “Now look ‘ere men, I ‘ope you’ve found me grub?
If I don’t eat, I’ll soon be beat, down to a little stub.”
“We couldn’t find n Serg,” they said, now sure of no promotion.
Then came a noise, to our three boys: the sound of great commotion.
The Inspector was a pleasant man, not known for being grumpy.
“I found this ‘ere, upon me chair; I’ve made n rather lumpy.”
Our poor three men could not control, their humorous expression.
See, the pasty was all flat, because of sudden great compression.
So if you see three constables, just wandering around.
Don’t fret, for you can bet, they’re investigation bound.
To quickly find who put it there, upon the boss’s seat.
Before they’re sent, with egos bent, back upon the beat.