One day Mum felt bored and lonely
so she made some macaroni.
She cooked it in her giant pan –
the one reserved for stews and lamb.
It boiled away for hour on hour
till all the liquid was devoured.
She added milk and added water,
a pint of blood from her eldest daughter.
She put in pepper, sprinkled salt,
a clove of garlic, spoon of malt.
But something she had done unknowing
kept the pasta growing and growing.
It hit the floor and filled the kitchen
expanded through each room we lived in,
brought the house down, didn’t stop,
this soggy swelling pasta slop.
Soon it swamped the entire planet.
That was the end and so I’ll have it –
never let my mum cook pasta.
It’s going to be a huge disaster.