I’m a humble sausage roll,
I’m a pastry-swaddled treat:
Worship me, and sell your soul –
I’m the porkie paraclete:
I’m the icing on the cake.
I am here, your festive bake.
When we come from Nazareth,
Crisp and crunchy, hint of grease,
Geordie Gregg (in heated breath)
Will claim me as his masterpiece.
A sausage roll’s a strong as cheese is.
I like playing Baby Jesus.
I am here, your Christmas scoff:
Martyr to the season’s trade.
Stigmata buffs are bunking off
To see the ovens where I’m made:
Taste my pastry, swallow slowly,
Bow before me, who art holy.
In a manger, for a crib,
Let me strut my wonder stuff:
Evangelist, please load your nib,
To praise my melting golden puff –
Call me Master, call me Lord.
Don’t forget your Gregg’s Reward.
Colour never artificial,
No trans fats or MSG –
Do not be so prejudicial
If the masses worship me –
Here I lie with great mystique,
A new cult opens every week.
Click here for a Guardian article