To St. Lawrence, patron saint of cooks, comedians, fire prevention, France, and the poor

Dear Larry, at our gîte last summer,
Where barbecues are de rigueur,
I burnt my fingers - what a bummer! -
When roasting rabbits in their fur.

My wife and children thought it funny
When I hopped about the coals.
“Hot cross daddy, hot cross bunny!”
Thus they called, the poor lost souls.

Hélas! I sent the whole lot flying,
And flames engulfed us all, you see -
I rolled away, and watched them dying:
So no more French hols en famille.

The building also went to blazes -
Now I’m broke beyond endurance.
The question, Larry, that I raise is -
Can I claim on my insurance?

From the book Rime Present