POEM WOT I WROTE

Here's a little something from the archives. You can judge for yourself whether it should have stayed there...

A couple of years ago I went on a Faber writing weekend, held above a bookshop in one of the Chipping villages. I didn't see David Cameron or Rebekah Wade, though we did share a restaurant with Alex James one night, who was holding forth about farming... Anyway on the Sunday afternoon the tutor, who was Salley Vickers, author of Miss Garnet's Angel, sent us into the village square to write about something we saw.

I saw the butcher's shop, which was closed reasonably enough. This was the result:

CARCASSES IN THE WINDOW

Trev Cumbernauld, when you were young
Did you talk careers with mum?
Astronaut or engine driver,
Referee or deep sea diver?
“Not for me,” perhaps you crowed,
“Mine, Mum, is a different road!
Chops and brisket, ribs and haunch
From snout to tail, from plate to paunch;
Meat is where my future lies
And serving folk, eschewing cries
Of tastelessness at my display
From passing vegans; for what do they
Know about the finest fillets
For roasting, grilling and filling skillets?
My shop will be a fleshly beacon.
So sod the veggies, Mum, for they can
Go and take a running jump
If they object to oozing stump
Of ruby flesh turned flaky grey;
A feast on any sunny day!”

But had Mum hoped, Trev, you’d aspire
To nobler cause, a calling higher?
And would she, if she’s still around,
Change her viewpoint as she found,
Pausing at your shop, no less
Your Three Gold Stars for cleanliness?
Your posters for the local shows,
Card for spinster miss who sews?
Your stickers from the Daily Mail
Urging ‘JUST SAY NON’ to filthy snail
Eaters from across the channel,
Chompers of frog’s legs, dodgers of flannel?

Yes! Mum would smile, Trev, she would see
You skewered your market perfectly.
Retail raja, self-made man,
Lord Liver, King Kidney, the Hitler of Ham!
Lefties! Veggies! Vegans! Frogs!
Twittering do-gooders, writers of blogs;
However they sneer, Trev, however they look
Tell them to sling their butcher’s hook.


[AUTHOR'S FOOTNOTE: I don't eat meat. Can you tell?]