Pouting sweetly her rouge-red lips,
Was this the face that lauched a million chips
And cooked the cod for poor young William?

For here what is there out of plaice?
No chip on her shoulder or egg on his face -

Lady in the chippie, swinging your hips,
With your extra-spicy cookshop dips,
Plant me a banger on your lips.

All of your condiments upon me shower,
Pour on the vinegar, you'll never sour;
You get sweeter by the hour.

I'll stir-fry slowly in your eyes,
Oh, mushy peas, cod roes, pukka pies,
Bring forth your fresh-cooked breasts of chicken,
And replete at last on what I've eaten

I'll think: Helen of Troy, why should she matter?
I'd not care if I grow much fatter
If me, dear lady, you'd assault and batter.

Paul Lester

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lady-in-the-chippie/