Like Waitrose..

[Sir_Nigel 10]

Sorry to intrude on Johnsbucket.com but here’s a poem by someone else:

 

Like Waitrose

 

I just popped in for margarine

and found this tranquil place

where matrons shop for groceries

at a gently ordered pace.

 

A higher, brighter Otherworld

with slightly dearer nosh,

a sea of gracious Englishness

where the checkout girls are posh.

 

A calming cool oasis,

delightful but bizarre,

compared to it’s competitors -

a restful Shangri-la.

 

I wandered through its cloistered lanes

with reverential awe,

only having slummed it

with the common folk before.

 

It’s resolutely middle class -

the accents here are plummier,

the clientele more civilised,

the mummies also yummier.

 

They seem to have a rule preventing

those from council flats

from dragging round their growing broods

of noisy wayward brats.

 

And feckless bovine layabouts

with badly drawn tattoos

are not allowed to block the aisles

with carts of bargain booze.

 

Some bold directive bars the way

to those of little brain,

the seedy undesirables

and anyone called Wayne.

 

They’re really most fastidious -

some strict protective hand

sees sportswear logos frowned upon,

jogging bottoms banned,

 

trouser belts compulsory,

the great unwashed rejected

the hooded top a rarity.

A certain norm expected.

 

And though this new environment

seemed alien and strange,

I loved the cosy Stepfordness

and narrow social range.

 

So if you want to enter here

I hope you’re thick of skin,

‘cos if you’re only riff raff

they might not let you in.