Child, one day you will understand, when faced with provocation
How nothing solves a problem like correct retaliation.
Forgiveness is the trait divine but honestly, you should do
Unto others at least twice as hard as they have done unto you.
In life, my child, you'll have access to a myriad means of aggression,
But right now I want you hold this one thought: baked beans are not a weapon.
A can of beans, a nutritious tasty snack
Not a source of preemptive strike, not a vehicle for counterattack
Part of a balanced diet, not a weapon.
Some get their own back by resorting to vicious streams of invective;
I find a well-placed knee in the nuts infinitely more effective.
Subtlety is better still, and one day when you too are alone
You'll scrawl the number on the toilet wall of a posh boy's mobile phone.
Some folks deserve it. They need to be got, and when you gotta get 'em,
Do what you will. Knock yourself out. But baked beans? Not a weapon.
I love a joke like the next man, I'm happy to go along
But weaponising your lunch is fifty-seven varieties of wrong.
One of your five a day. Not a weapon.
Now I understand I've said it twice, but although I don't want to harp, it's
An absolute bugger to get on my knees and get the bloody things out of the carpets.
I don't even like them! Honestly, I think they taste like vomit.
I want to retch when I bring you a plate with the bastards piled upon it.
I wouldn't be so frustrated if you'd actually ever ate 'em.
I know you like them, kid, but take it from me: baked beans are not a weapon.
