​I was walking along, not too far from Stroud
When I happened to chance on a bit of a crowd
There stood a man, dishing out lots,
Of plastic spoons and small little pots
They were various colours, blue red and yell -o
They were, he assured me, his latest gelat-o

‘It’s ice cream’ I h’rumphed ‘stop being posh.
Its frozen cow produce flavoured to nosh’
There’s probably eggs and a bit of a whiff
Of flavouring chilled, until it gets stiff
‘No no’ said the vendor, ‘that’s not all it is,
You’ve left out the magic, the pizzaz and fizz’
 
‘Ice cream is fine, if you’re in a rush
And you don’t mind what you stick in your mush.
Gelato is made with precision and care
If it doesn’t add flavour it isn’t in there.
There’s no powders or extras to hold it together
Its all churned by hand till its light as a feather’

​I looked at this chancer slightly askance
‘go on,’ he said ‘give your taste buds a chance’
He held out a pot, which when I think,
may just have been red, or maybe deep pink
or maybe light purple I’m really not sure
because on this bit my memory’s poor
It’s all a bit hazy, I confess I’m vexed
But I’m not really sure what happened next

I popped off the lid and had a small lick
off the spoon in my hand and then something went click
My tongue was suddenly the size of a train
as a very large raspberry charged through my brain,
chased, it would seem,
by small tribe of chunky white chocolate and cream.

He gave me another, a lemon meringue
That bounced round my mouth with a pow and a zang
What happened next I admit is absurd
I may have two ice creams but never a third
 
But a third’s what I had and I loved that one too
and now I admit there’s not too much ado
There’s really a difference, just like the man says
There’s good ice cream out there which does deserves praise
But Gelato is best-est on really hot days.