To A Mousse

Wee sleekit coorin’ timorous dessert,

Topped with cherries and a fresh cream squirt,

I see you tremble with anticipation,

As my spoon comes close to your sugar nation.

 

Oh, if ever a pudding could be blessed with legs,

Your fragile self but the whites of eggs,

And you cannot run as my spoon descends,

A lick, a lip-smack, and your life ends.

 

It is no longer a world of mousse and man,

But of empty bowl and whipped cream can,

So, pudding, reflect on the vagaries of fate,

While I lick my spoon and clean my plate.