Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon

I was walking down St Giles in Oxford with Paul Sutton and I don't remember who else. We met a poet, or at least someone selling poetry, or at least someone selling a book of words. And Paul bought a book, as you do, and I don't remember the poems, or the words, except for one last line, which was "Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon". And we spent a long time making fun of it. But I still think of it, and it still makes me smile, so maybe it was poetry after all.