Foodstuff Golem King | Create your badge


O Foodstuff Golem King with eyes of pastrami,
lettuce leaf tongue and nostril salami,
as you perch on your throne of marmalade shred,
I can’t help but gaze at your strawberry head.
How I long to lick sugar from those big doughnut ears,
and dip crumpet hands in sweet chocolaty tears.

You were always delicious, even as a baby,
nappies just perfect for soaking up gravy;
your juvenile acne was made up of sultanas,
the skin where it thrived goes great with bananas.
Then as you grew older and sprouted a beard,
the hairs on your chin were jam neatly smeared.

O Foodstuff Golem King, I can’t stand the suspense;
bring forth my spoon: let the orgy commence!

The blood in your veins is sweet chilli sauce,
for dunking prawn toes before the main course,
which consists of none other than your own beefsteak legs,
cooked medium-rare, topped with testicle eggs.
For afters, with a spoon, I dig into your bum:
fruity sponge cake, with sweat droplet rum.

I would eat your arms but I’ve a family to feed,
so don’t you go saying I’m a slave to my greed,
but your lips make a dish of finest smoked kippers,
plus pots of your snot for various dippers.
And I simply can’t resist your organs of toffee,
a perfect companion to hot plasma coffee.

O Foodstuff Golem King, whether chunk, pint or slice,
your flavour’s sublime, be it sugar or spice.

Having lazily crunched through each breadstick thumb,
I wipe my lips clear of fingernail crumb.
I should now be full, as I chew apple nipple,
and wash it all down with tart spittle tipple.
Yes, I’m a monster, having wreaked all this damage,
but it’s not my fault that you make a great sandwich.

With hands on fat belly I burp my approval;
the final act now is royal morsel removal
from your half-eaten throne that’s empty and bare,
it’s not my concern how your subjects will fare.
You should have made plans regarding your demise,
instead of producing a family of pies.

O Foodstuff Golem King, I sit on your throne,
O Foodstuff Golem King, and with a cocktail stick bone,
O Foodstuff Golem King, I pick my teeth clean,
but alas, I'm still hungry...dear king, where's your queen?

Send a royal message to The King: foodking@ersatzscribblings.com