I met this chef called Alfie Setter

Said that he would treat me better

Bet that boyfriend couldn't compete

With what he'd make for me to eat

He had this spaniel dog called Pete

And a sickly looking parakeet

The parakeet he'd taught to talk

And we could take Pete for a walk

Walk in the park, that's what he said

He let Pete shit in the flower bed

Ensuring me he wasn't a scoundrel

He'd just had a fight with the local council

Because Pete's howling made such a din

They now refused to collect his bin.

His favourite film was Gunga Din

Or anything with Cary Grant in

But his response was fucking crippling

When I asked if he liked Rudyard Kipling

He got upset and began to bake

He thought I'd meant the fucking cake

Mr Kipling; Sayers, Hurst's or Gregg's

He wished them all were fucking dead

Couldn't manage a pasty, he said

Or sausage rolls, doughnuts or bread.

I think I might have upset him a bit

When I said I couldn't give a shit

About this anti-corporate disclosure

Because then he lost his damn composure:

All he wanted was mainstream exposure

Before his restaurant suffered foreclosure!

At this point I thought I'd take my leave

And just so he didn't misconceive

When I told him he should fuck off

I challenged him to a chilli cook-off

And while his was admittedly divine

When it came round to tasting mine

He was heard to indignantly opine

That he'd found several dog hairs entwined.

And that was when poor old Alfie Setter

Started and couldn't stop spitting feathers!

Literally! Because, as you might have guessed,

I'd killed and cooked his fucking pets.

I got a court summons in the mail

But I didn't get to go to jail

Granted a modicum of legal immunity

By the gratitude of the local community

They thought I was completely sublime

For getting rid of that fucking canine.