On the Feast of St. Pancake

On the feast of St. Pancake, the kids push and shove,
And my wife is most cynically flattered.
They crowd round the mixture with eyes full of love,
And if spilt, then the whole lot get battered.

Some prefer sugar and some go for jam,
Preferring the sickly sweet filling.
I ought to have lemon, but sadly I am
Afflicted by taste-buds unwilling.

Each year we agree that this annual fare
Should be much more often repeated.
But our greatest intentions turn into despair,
And our quest for more pancakes defeated.

Each year we converse about pancakes of yore,
And examine each other’s traditions.
The difference between us then comes to the fore,
When viewed from respective positions.

She always had pancakes instead of her dinner,
While we hungry hippos had both.
Which kind of explains why my wife’s so much thinner,
And I am afflicted by sloth.