Breathless at the Butcher's . . . or . . . The Sins of the Flesh.
Breathless at the Butcher’s … or … The sins of the flesh.
Each Saturday the high street is a canyon of temptation
As the public stare at the proffered wares with awe and approbation.
You can bare your soles at the cobbler’s shop but the chemist’s best for rumours
And dozens queue for a loaf or two when they sniff the baker’s bloomers.
The fishmonger has mussels, the bookshop man’s quite clever,
But I’m not torn twixt brains and brawn, I get them both together!
Behind his plastic parsley strips in a battered old straw hat,
There’s a shining knight in blue and white, neither too lean nor too fat.
His lamb-chop whiskers make me wilt, sausage fingers cause a quiver,
He can string me along with his jellied tongue or a succulent slice of liver.
Crisp pork scratchings tempt me so, his dripping is the best,
But I’ll make do with a pound of stew as he weighs my chicken breast.
I don’t much care if his ribs are spare or his scrag-end’s tough and bony,
I long to toy with his saveloy and prod his plump polony.
Each time I stand by his chilled display I break out in a fever
And start to reel at the ringing steel as he sharpens up his cleaver.
So please don’t think it bold of me or label me as loose
When in Christmas week it’s here I seek a man to stuff my goose.
I won’t talk tripe or mince my words when he offers me his cheek,
For I would die for just one pig’s eye to see me through the week.
So skewer me on your chopping block, for you I’ll act the chump
And I won’t much mind when I rise to find your sawdust on my rump.
Just chase me to your chiller, where between your glistening hams
We’ll down our tools as our passion cools, in the silence of your lambs.
. . . and a nice chianti.