A pan of Scouse on the stovetop steams,
With crusty bread cut thick as dreams.
Diced beef or lamb, five pounds of spuds,
Stirred with loyalty, rich as blood.
Carrots, onions, celery, too,
With kindness served in every stew.
A dash of warmth, a tracksuit style,
And tales that stretch a country mile.

A bubbling pot of Pea-Wack green,
With bread that’s fit for a king or queen.
Ham bones simmer, split peas swell,
With Scouse pride in every smell.
Add carrots, lentils, onions sweet,
And humour no one can defeat.
Seasoned well with quiet might,
We laugh, we cry, but stay upright.

A slab of Wet Nelly, warm and dense,
Baked with love that’s deep and immense.
One stale loaf, eggs, and sugar brown,
With dried fruit jewels and a custard crown.
A Scouse accent, soft and true,
And hands that’ll always help you through.
In Liverpool, with hearts content,
Is where the sweetest days are spent.