Come fry with me

In Competition No. 2954 you were invited to supply an ode to a greasy spoon, a challenge prompted by a recent column that Melissa Kite wrote bemoaning the rise of independent cafés and the consequent demise of the decent, non-locally foraged fry-up.
Most of your odes were to a caff, but a few chose to address a greasy piece of cutlery instead. I liked Josh Ekroy’s spin on Keats’s ‘Ode on Melancholy’ and there was nice work, too, from Nick Campailla and John Priestland. The winners take £25; Brian Murdoch pockets £30.

Thou spreadst a breakfast in my sight,
Thy filling grease bestoweth,
O transport caff, such pure delight,
My tea mug overfloweth!

Embryos of a farmyard fowll
Fried in the oil, and shining,
With strips of swine-flesh cheek-by-jowl,
Well crisped, by them reclining,
 
Fat tubes of offal, fungi too,
And bread of heaven grillèd.
Pulses in sauce of ruby hue,
Plates with black pudding fillèd.
 
It breaketh fasts and maketh whole,
Full English faileth never.