His name is Jeff.  He’s a chef.

How can you tell?  By his trousers of course.

When he puts on those checky trousers he’s no longer just Jeff,

But, Jeffry, like his Mam used to scream, making herself hoarse

At his idleness, lethargy, laziness, now all in the past

Since a chef he’s become, even though it’s self-classed.

 

Doesn’t wear one of them tall ‘ats though.

He tried one.  Couldn’t get through’t door

Of the greasy spoon whose owner was keen

So he stuck an advert in the window for the public to be seen

He wanted someone to wash up, and be well behaved,

And now and then cook something simple.  Like chips.  Micro-waved.

 

His concoctions have no limit. If they’re found in a tin

Or, frozen, in packaging hidden deep inside a bin

So long as the instructions are written clear

He shows not one iota of fear

Brandishing a tin opener or switching on the micro wave

Thrusting out his puny chest. He is, without doubt; brave

 

Jeff explains. Proper chefs wear checky trousers, but these,

Have been worn by many chefs, dishing out burgers with cheese.

They get washed, once a month, and hung on the line

No, Not by Jeff, he relaxes with a Woodbine

By his dearest mother, his very own saint,

Not her fault she can’t, wash out the paint

 

His checky trousers are all stained with grease

Stains worn like medals, from conquests before

A dropped burger caused those ones on the knees. 

The five second rule applied, but he grabbed it in four

The teenager who chewed it with gusto, gulped down with delight

Gave a thumbs up and ordered two more.  Jeff’s best order that night

 

Checky trousers are a definite draw

Female customers!  The young ones, you know

Smile when they see him, and utter.  ‘Cor’

When he tosses with apparent ease

And at the same time stifling a sneeze

Only two or three mushrooms hitt’n the floor

 

He moves.  To the customer’s side of the counter

To chat up a lass giving him the eye

A quick flare behind, reflected in the wind’er,

It’s the burger fat blazin’. See the sparks fly

Attracting Jeff’s boss who’s anger it fuels

Whilst having a quick fag break against his own rules

 

Grabbing the safety blanket stowed by the wall

Boss throws it over the pan shouting, ‘of you I’m tired,

So get those checky trousers off cos’, pointing a finger, ‘your fired’

Jeff took one swift look and saw he wasn’t kiddin..

Dropped his checky trousers revealing underpants, brilliant green

Another disappointment.  Young lady, the cause, was nowhere to be seen

 

Grabbing a grimy tablecloth Jeff hastened through the door

Wrapped it round, and left behind, his ex employer’s roar

Oi’, stop, give it back, you’ll never get another job in this town

I’ll make sure a reference from me will do you down.

Jeff made his way homeward, rag worn like a sarong

Realising, checky trousers, to him, would no longer belong.