Runny Egg And Chips

Roadkill was a good grub when I was a kid. Believe me; it beat baked beans on toast or runny egg and chips. Generally, it'd consist of a pheasant or two, or maybe an old plump rabbit that'd find its way into a pearl barley cider liquor stew. It'd have flavour, that's for sure. Generally speaking, it wasn't by accident. The brakes didn't go all out or even-on and the driver didn't suddenly blackout. This was precision driving, with accuracy in a red Mini-Cooper - going hell for leather. Rounding a blind bend in the road with a waterfall into top gear on a three-mile home straight. Disappointment would come at the end. If nothing lay dead in our wake. And we'd returned empty-handed to whatever was cooking on the grate like half a dozen chestnuts in the fall of 1978.