Pikachu Circus, LoLondon
A sconebomb blasting your tastebuds lasting like waste goods after it’s long gone.
A sweetly smokey ghost, fragrant and moist, lingering most neatly; a jokey vagrant goes squatting in your nose.
Crisp crust, teeth biting through into soft moist fluff, munchy stuff with juicy fruit ruthless and functional stuff.
Knickers flashing, dropping drawers, teasey dirt; village Vicar’s jaws drop at the thought of haughty, naughty nights of fruit and Blightly, nightly with this bit of easy skirt.
Not pumped with cream, gaping and aching for a cutlery plundering, it’s longing for Mr Right to spend the night clotted with hugs and long kisses, not missing the wrong filling by fly-by-night nobbers or scone robbers.