Take a sprig of rosemary, Teased from their soil. Add it to the stock you've made, And bring it to a boil.
Crush a bay leaf from their tree, And core a lifted pear, They'll never notice what you took, For who did see you there?
As you slunk across their garden fence, And sprang the rusty locks, And crept amongst the lillies white, The sage and hollyhocks.
Plucked at their tomato vines, For twisting in a stew, Some lemons and blackcurrants, tart, For flavouring the choux.
And then, gathered underfoot, A garlic bulb and peas, Dug about for ready carrots, Collecting what you please.
Scrumped between the plum trees, They'll not notice seven or eight, That go missing from their orchard, To lay sweet upon your plate.
And with warm bread and butter, Use marmalade you've jarred, From oranges and ginger, And the stem of pink rhubarb.
And finally, nasturtium - To decorate at your pleasure, All the bounty you have harvested, And dine on, in stolen leisure.