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 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, and 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,  no longer belong.