Sandwich (Poetry)

John Montagu of Sandwich sat perspiring as the stakes
grew higher and the golden guineas piled,
when his stomach gave a rumble of the order thunder makes
and a fellow player turned to him and smiled:

“Methinks your belly’s empty, John, and calls for sustenance —
I’ll wager you could finish off a horse —
yonder wench can no doubt tempt you with her appetising glance
and a platter of roast pork and apple sauce.”

The Earl maintained his gambler’s mask — a politician’s face —
inscrutable, as pangs of hunger grew,
but somewhat loathe to leave the table when he had a hidden ace,
called the serving girl and told her what to do:

“Cut me two generous slices from a fresh-baked loaf of bread
and place some meat and gravy in between,
so I may continue playing while the beast inside is fed.”
( For he had a mind to sweep the kitty clean.)

Posterity does not record the outcome of that game
and of further information there’s a lack,
just a character synonymous with culinary fame —
the historical inventor of the snack,

whose name became a byword for a satisfying bite
that’s flexible and simple to prepare —
the most quick and tasty answer to a sudden appetite,
and one that can be taken anywhere.

It’s for this he is remembered, not politics or such,
and the irony of fame is understood —
he may well have lost his noble shirt (we don’t care overmuch),
but the sandwich must have tasted bloody good!