Ode to a Smoked Salmon Sandwich

with specific reference to its application the morning after the night before

My head aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of vodka I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull beer to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in my happiness,—
    That thou, Pret smoked salmon sandwich,
          In some melodious plot
  Came to me, the morning after,
    Singing of the night before, with ease.

2.

O, for a smoked salmon sandwich! that hath been
  Cool’d a long age in the Pret open fronted fridge cabinet,
Tasting of butter and the salty sea,
  Waves, and fisherman’s song, and last night’s mirth!
O for a beaker full of black americano,
  Full of the true, the miraculous caffeine,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
          And purple-stained mouth;
  Showing what I was drinking, which should be to the world unseen,
    And fade away with toothpaste and/or gum.

3.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  the embarrassing memories of yesterday evening,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where we sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, hangovers,
  Where youth grows pale, and the opposite of spectre-thin, and dies;
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
          And leaden-eyed despairs,
  Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new friends pine at them beyond to-morrow.

4.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
  Pret smoked salmon sandwich,
But on the jaded wings of paracetamol,
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the salmon,
  And chilled the butter on the wholegrain bread,
    Cluster’d around by all her nutritious seeds;
          For here there is no light,
  Save what from Pret is with the breezes blown
    Through urban gloom and winding Mayfair ways.

5.

I cannot see what shoes are on my feet,
  Nor what coat hangs from my chair,
But, in what I wish was embalmed darkness,
  I gaze on my smoked salmon sandwich,
The pink flesh, surely wild not farmed;
  Golden butter, with its high fat content;
    Soft brown bread covering both;
          And mid-morning we feel alright,
  Life begins to return, less full of dewy wine, to
    The cacophonous strains of Friday morning.

6.

Salmon I listen; and, for many a time
  I have been half in love with you,
Call’d you soft names in the queue to pay,
  To take into my hands your quiet, triangular perfection;
Now more than ever seems cheap for £2.95,
  To cease upon the rest of the day with no pain,
    While thou art pouring forth thy salmony goodness
          Through my muddled synapses,
  Still wouldst thou exist, and I have a ravenous hunger—
    So I will eat you, at 10.30am.

7.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Pret smoked salmon sandwich!
  No hungry generations tread thee down;
Everyone prefers the artisan baguettes,
  The fashionable hot wraps or, lately, the popcorn:
Perhaps the self-same people
  Also think the sword is mightier than the pen,
    It’s not.
          You stand alone, slimmer than your counterparts,
  Monochrome, almost, in a profusion of rocket, cranberry sauce
    And packets of inferior sushi.

8.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
  To toll me back from thee to my salmon self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot eat so well
  As she is fam’d to do, deceiving fish.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
  Past the near alley, over the road,
    Up Bond Street; and now ’tis buried deep
          In Piccadilly:
  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
    A Pret smoked salmon sandwich is my music:—Do I wake or sleep?