Marty Supreme

Ode to Marty Supreme

Marty Supreme, of biscuit-tin renown,
Whose kingdom’s sealed in cardboard, worn and brown.
He lines the custard creams in perfect rows,
A general who o’er the shortbread throws
His discerning eye – each jammy dodger placed
With meticulous, almost royal, taste.
No crumb may stray, no bourbon dare to slip
Without his nod, or face his firm rebuke.

He crowns the kettle’s whistle as a call
To parliament – he answers one and all
With steaming mugs held high, a solemn vow:
"The brew shall steep! Delay not, anyhow!"
The lorry-drivers pause outside his gate,
Hushed by the gravitas of his tea-plate.
"First pour," he intones, "then speak of petrol prices –
Discord disrupts the leaves’ wise sacrifice."

His sock drawer’s sorted by hue and wear,
A spectrum strict beyond compare.
No argyle dares to mingle with the plain,
Nor rebel heel disrupt the ordered train.
He adjusts the pictures on the wall
With micrometre care, heeding the call
Of vertical truth – a fraction’s skew
Would vex his soul, a hue askew askew.
Even the dust beneath the sofa gleams
Beneath his gaze – he sees the unseen seams.

Yet Marty’s crown is not of gold or gem,
But quiet joy in life’s small diadem.
He finds the epic in the ordinary seam:
A perfectly dunked biscuit, a fulfilled dream
Of matching socks, the kettle’s joyful sigh.
So let the world rush past, stressed and shy –
We’ll tip our hats to Marty’s gentle reign:
Supreme not in power, but in feeling vain
Of worry, finding splendour in the mundane
Where others see but rain.
Long live Marty! May his teapot never drain.

(British spelling used throughout: colour, organise, favour, petrol, lorry, biscuit, programme, sceptical, humour, fulfilment.)