It’s Mustard, Richard. Mustard

I’ve been flying Virgin Airlines
I really am disgusted
What’s this yellow stuff on my plate?
It’s mustard, Richard. Mustard!

It’s making me feel faint
It’s holding the meat to ransom
I’m writing a letter of complaint
To Richard Branson

It’s mustard, Richard. Mustard!
I’m really quite disgusted
Or maybe it is custard
I really am quite flustered
My poor old sense of taste
Has been radically adjusted
This yellow stuff on my plate
It’s mustard, Richard. Mustard!

I’m used to haute cuisine
I am not a gadgy
What is this I see before me?
It’s not an onion bahji

And when I saw my third course
My heart began to sag
It’s a tiny piece of biscuit
In a crime scene specimen bag

I must have done something wrong to receive this meal
I must have died a thousand deaths until I couldn’t feel

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