Tea for two

We’ve been waiting outside while they lock the front doors;
now they’re leaving their shifts for their cars.
Soon we’ll sneak round the back to see what lies in store
once it’s clear that the food bins are ours.

You and me dear, we’re the fanciest rats
dining out on the town but for free.
By the light of the moon, come to sea pussycat,
and we’ll sail through the skips for our tea.

My first find’s a pallet stacked high with round cakes
almost fresh and still more or less wrapped:
Lemon drizzle and Blueberry and Chocolate fudge flakes…
we shall dine like Greek gods on these scraps!

We’re deep in bananas; bruised, bunched and peeled bare,
burst corn flakes, bashed biscuits and Brie,
there’s a stickered-up squash, four grazed runaway pears.
Puss, fill up our bags and let’s flee.

A hundred white pints lying sideways in crates
with their tops scattered blue, red and green.
It’s still good to drink, marked with yesterday’s date
and there’s plenty for you and for me.

So it’s muffins and milk for our dinner, I smile.
Did you fear we would live on the edge?
Not tonight, not with three kinds of muffin my child,
and a fridge full of cheese, fruit and veg.

We’ve run out of coffee, they didn’t have bread,
but there’s salmon and ten tins of beans,
last week’s Heat magazine and a sunflower spread,
and it’s milk and muffins for tea, for tea,
it’s milk and muffins for tea.