IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE SKIN... (My poem about being forced to eat custard/milk puddings as a lad...)

 It Might Have Been The Skin…

It might have been the rice,

The custard, the semolina,

Or even the sago pudding

Which began my loathing, my sin,

My mealtime seething I suppose.

Although the unlikely fear probably

Stemmed less from the parental castigation

But more from the quivering surface skin…

It might have been the consistency, 

The regularity, the hot milk,

Or the timing of the pudding,

Which continued my depression, my repugnance,

My mealtime foreboding I suppose.

Although the irrepressible fear probably

Stemmed less from the invisible impression

But more from the texture, the objectionable 

abhorrence…

Procrastination:

Cabbage maybe, or runner beans,

Unless flooded by mint sauce.

Condemnation:

Incarcerated certainly, or threatened,

Until production of the second course…

Desperation:

Skin forming, obviously, or thickening,

Under pressure to clear plate.

Trepidation:

Swallowing rapidly, or gulping,

Unwise yet imperative, the skin a focus of hate…

Pete Ray

The skin on custard and milk puddings… 

Gods, nearly as bad as dumplings…