Steak

On a sizzling grill the steak does lie,
A ribeye thick, with marbled sigh.
We baste it slow with rosemary thyme,
Turn each side, listen to the primal chime.
When juices run, a ruby tide,
We savour rare, or medium‑fried inside.
The crust, a caramelised, dark‑hued crust,
Releases a smoky perfume, robust.
With chips and peas, a pint of ale,
The humble steak tells Britain’s tale.