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The Butcher's Shop - UK Style

Legs, Shoulders, Ribs and Shanks,
Chops, Sirloins, Breasts and Flanks,
These are all 'meats' of the Butcher's trade,
Where lots of delicious 'things' are made.

Hams, Pies, Pickles and Stuffing,
No I am really not bluffing,
Chicken, Goose, Turkey and Duck,
To buy these things you need some 'pluck'.

With these 'meats' you need to know,
How to steam and roast, real slow,
How to fry, simmer and grill,
It can be quite a difficult skill.

But the kindly Butcher will help you out,
You really only have to shout,
He knows the cuts, has all the info,
With all his knowledge, he's a real pro.

He knows how long to cook things for,
How the baste and how to score
The pork, so that lovely 'crackling' can be had,
Now think of it! That can't be bad.

There's livers, kidneys and chitterlings which,
Grab the taste buds, gee they're rich,
Bacon, sausages and corned beef slices,
Some with garlic, some with spices.

Whatever you like, it's all ready for you.
Even if you have to queue,
It's worth the wait, for what you'll get
It'll melt in the mouth, that I can bet!

Your friendly Butcher is a capable chap,
He'll answer your questions without a flap,
So try all his produce, the flavours are great,
You'll never have anything left on your plate.

There's variety beyond belief,
Try any 'meat' you'll come to no grief,
The choice is amazing, the recipes fab,
There's always a choice on the Butcher's slab.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Haggis

A haggis found itself in a butcher’s window
and had a feeling that it shouldn’t be there.
He had visions of being on a Scottish hillside
amongst the heather and free without a care.

He didn’t feel right being next to a chicken,
pork sausages, and various other things.
He realised that his beautiful tail had gone,
as well as his legs, head, and wings.

The butcher then wrapped him up in paper
and gave him to Mrs Macnee
who took him home for dinner
for her husband and family of three.

She unwrapped him and left him on the table
while she went to answer the door.
The Haggis was feeling nervous and unsteady,
and rolled from the table to the floor.

It gathered pace and rolled out of the kitchen,
past Mrs Macnee, and out of the door.
He’s never be seen since and for all we know
he’s back in the heather once more.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Butcher Boosted

Why do they flock,
To have their meat...
Stripped clean of fat?

And who is that selected...
To do just that?
This butcher boosted,
Is preferred!
And slices exactly what is wished.
To rid them of maggots leeching.
And feed to them a diet to feast...
With an increased desire,
To eat from a substance...
More nutritiously dished!

Without those promises of expectations...
That have left them with tastebuds,
Long on delusion!
And not fed with sensations demanded.

This butcher boosted...
Openly will command,
With an exposed and uncloaked hand...
Those who witness the slicing that is done,
Will come to understand!
This butcher boosted is no joke.
And each stroke is meant,
To rid them from all deceptions hidden.

And qualified are the intentions made...
To open all eyes along the way!

'There is no fat on this cat's back!
Down to basics.
With an eye on facts.
Delivered and received!
To nourish a return of reality believed.'

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Pig

In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
"They want my bacon slice by slice
"To sell at a tremendous price!
"They want my tender juicy chops
"To put in all the butcher's shops!
"They want my pork to make a roast
"And that's the part'll cost the most!
"They want my sausages in strings!
"They even want my chitterlings!
"The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
"That is the reason for my life!"
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch
"That he might have me for his lunch.
"And so, because I feared the worst,
"I thought I'd better eat him first."

poem by Roald Dahl
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To A Cow In Mourning

It aches my heart to hear you mourn poor cow
And i would help you if i could somehow
But only God can resurrect your son
Who has fallen victim of the butcher's gun.

You've mourned since afternoon of saturday
When men from you took fatted calf away
And since saturday all but five days ago
You've lived beneath a cloud of grief and woe.

Your mournful bellows tell of painful ache
In heart that must be very near to break
And the forlorn face and the sad eyed look that tell
Of creature who has lived four days of hell.

Today a wealthy Townman sit and eat
And masticate your offspring's tender meat
And say to wife 'darling the meat taste nice'
It's prime beef like this make meat seem worth it's price.

And your farmer owner he doesn't even care
Of the grief that pains you he seem unaware
He doesn't feel moved by bovine moans or tears
And your mournful bellows fall on heedles ears.

But the only cure for grief and dismal pine
Is the proven and the age old healer time
And time poor cow will help make you forget
That son you loved whom butcher shot to death.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The right one bows to the might.

The goat can’t expect mercy from the butcher.
The butcher has no guilt for his act on it.
The weak have necessarily to succumb
To the might, with their right notwithstanding.
24.11.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Didn't He Ramble

Didn't he ramble.... he rambled
Rambled all around.... in and out of town
Didn't he ramble....didn't he ramble
He rambled till the butcher cut him down
His feet was in the market place..his head was in the street
Lady pass him by, said..look at the market meat
He grabbed her pocket book..and said i wish you well
She pulled out a forty-five..said i'm head of personnel
Didn't he ramble...i said he rambled
Rambled all around...in and out of town
Didn't he ramble...oh didn't he ramble
He rambled till the butcher shot him down
(instrumental break)
He slipped into the cat house..made love to the stable
Madam caught him cold..said i'll pay you when i be able
Six months had passed ..and she stood all she could stand
She said buddy when i'm through with you
Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo' hand
And didn't he ramble...he rambled
Rambled all around...in and out of town
Oh didn't he ramble......he rambled
You know he rambled...till the butcher...cut him down
I said he rambled..lord...'till the butcher shot him down

song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Colin The Cumberland Sausage

Colin the Cumberland sausage
was as happy as a pig in mud.
Today the master butcher made him
for the table of Mr Wood.

So full of beans was Colin
he was nearly bursting from his skin,
until the butcher wrapped him in paper
for the errand boy to deliver him.

Colin the Cumberland sausage
was delivered the very same day
to Publican Wood at the Barley Mow pub
who would cook him in the usual way.

Colin was laid out on the table
ready to go in the pan,
but Wuffer the dog entered the kitchen
and took Colin in his mouth and ran.

Now nobody knows what became of Colin
we assume he was eaten by the dog,
but don’t be surprised to see his brother
on the table of the Barley Mow pub.

poem by Orlando Belo
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The Butcher

There has been a butcher at my heart
I have been cut, severed and served
Diced up to a presentation
The mince of my forlorn desire
Left sitting in a bowl to waste
A consumption to indigestion
A poison to the pallet of love
The colour or romance blood red
Cut out drained away
There has been a butcher at my heart
Splicing, stabbing, hacking away
No delicate cuts to present
The back table offerings
Usually kept for the dogs
Is this all my heart has to offer
A bargain counter deal
On left over’s

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Catch The Man

Catch the man who escapes for something,
His entrance to the jaws of life conveys nothing;
Might and power betrays the worker in outer life,
Mastered knowledge is the reality.

Caught in the act, a dog and man are the same,
The thief surpasses a butcher, but does the thief
Also butcher the one who is in his way,
The one in the way of success and prosperous conversation?

poem by Naveed Akram
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The Pieman

I'd like to be a pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, 'Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!'
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies - more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a pieman if ...
I wasn't very well.
Would you?

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Petrified lamb

The petrified lamb shivered
It wailed in vain
Searching for the herd
He was separated from
But no one was in sight

The poor animal cried all night
The biting cold was hurting him
Tied to a pole near a ramshackle
Meat shop he felt lonely
He was sold to a butcher
By the villager who always
Used to fondle him while grazing
How could he be so cruel
Thought the poor lamb

Even before the butcher came
Customers reached the shop
To buy fresh stock of meat
The poor animal felt
Someone would rescue him
From this precarious predicament

Not knowing the fate in store for him

The butcher came with his son in tow
Sharpened the knife
On a block of stone
Held the poor lamb to the ground
And slit its throat

Fountain of blood
Was on the floor
The lamb struggled
Before lying dead on the ground

Skinned, cleaned and hung
Upside down
Ready for buyers to select
The portions that they
Liked to buy
What a horrible scene
Repeated every day
On poor mute creatures
Who like us
Would like to live

poem by Vijay Menon
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Pork Chops are Fun

chop chop chop the pork squeals over dinner
with it's fatty bits and tasty bites
it marinates on a stick over hot coal
who will taste it first who will finish the bowl
Wow Pork Chops with red wine
then dinner will be divine

chop chop chop the pork is done
with ginger, wine and lots of fun
it's time to have with a salty bun
chop chop chop see it go in the oven my friends
it's dinner time lets eat it all
then lets sit together and have a ball

chop chop chop the pork tastes good
with the meat so tender it bloody weel should
sometimes on the pan sometimes as a roast
call your freinds for dinner it's a dish one can boast

chop chop chop the pork is done
sprikle a little wine to make things bright
then the meat put it on light
watch it burn and tremble with delight

chop chop chop my pork chops are done

poem by Anuj Tikku
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A Dog's Mistake

He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide,
He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside;
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair,
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear.
He was very poor and humble and content with what he got,
So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot;
Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain,
Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.

Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief,
And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef,
Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right
And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.

'Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who'd stood his friend,
To adopt a slang expression, "went in off the deepest end",
For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse
He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.

Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate:
'Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate,
And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day,
Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, "On your way."

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Market Day

There’s a market in our town, two days a week.
It’s nice to have a browse and take a quick peek.
There’s a riot of colours up and down the street,
And mouth-watering smells from all the food to eat.

There’s an explosion of different sights and sounds,
And dozens of people are leisurely milling around.
At the market, there’s always a great atmosphere,
And there’s nothing for sale there which is too dear.

A mobile van serves up spicy German bratwurst,
Plus a variety of different drinks to quench your thirst.
On one stall, they sell leather purses and handbags:
Cheap ones, plus designer ones, for the would-be WAGs.

In his mobile truck, a rotund butcher chops up some meat:
He promises his customers that his prices can’t be beat.
There’s a stall which sells low price pet supplies.
This is always a big attraction for the penny wise.

Hoping that none of his food will end up in the waste,
The Mediterranean food stall holder offers a free taste.
There are crisps and cakes stacked in crates,
Which are not long off of their sell by date.

From yet another stall, drifts an amazing perfumed smell.
They sell a variety of novelty soap and bath bombs as well.
A Jeweller displays a variety of items made of silver and gold.
He also buys any old unwanted jewellery, if it is being sold.

Then, of course, there’s the doughnut man –
Of this particular stall, I’m a very big fan!
Each market trader has their own unique call,
Trying to attract the customers to their stall.

They brave all weathers – the heat and the freezing cold,
Hoping that, by the close of day, their wares will be sold.
At the end of the day, there are real bargains to be found,
Such as a box of mixed fruit or veg for only a pound.

Come late afternoon, they pack up after a long day.
They load up their vans and are soon on their way.
When they have all gone, all that is left is a space,
And, of the market, there isn’t left a single trace.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Robin Hood And The Butcher

Come, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile,
With hey down, down, an a down,
That are in the bowers within;
For of Robin Hood, that archer good,
A song I intend for to sing.

Upon a time it chanced so,
Bold Robin in forrest did 'spy
A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,
With his flesh to the market did hye.

'Good morrow, good fellow,' said jolly Robin,
'What food hast [thou]? tell unto me;
Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,
For I like well thy company.'

The butcher he answer'd jolly Robin,
'No matter where I dwell;
For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham
I am going, my flesh to sell.'

'What's [the] price of thy flesh?' said jolly Robin,
'Come, tell it soon unto me;
And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,
For a butcher fain would I be.'

'The price of my flesh,' the butcher repli'd,
'I soon will tell unto thee;
With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear,
Four mark thou must give unto me.'

'Four mark I will give thee,' saith jolly Robin,
'Four mark it shall be thy fee;
The mony come count, and let me mount,
For a butcher I fain would be.'

Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone,
His butchers trade to begin;
With good intent to the sheriff he went,
And there he took up his inn.

When other butchers did open their meat,
Bold Robin he then begun;
But how for to sell he knew not well,
For a butcher he was but young.

When other butchers no meat could sell,
Robin got both gold and fee;
For he sold more meat for one peny
Then others could do for three.

But when he sold his meat so fast,
No butcher by him could thrive;
For he sold more meat for one peny
Than others could do for five.

Which made the butchers of Nottingham
To study as they did stand,
Saying, 'Surely he 'is' some prodigal,
That hath sold his fathers land.'

The butchers stepped to jolly Robin,
Acquainted with him for to be;
'Come, brother,' one said, 'we be all of one trade,
Come, will you go dine with me?'

'Accurst of his heart,' said jolly Robin,
'That a butcher doth deny;
I will go with you, my brethren true,
As fast as I can hie.'

But when to the sheriffs house they came,
To dinner they hied apace,
And Robin Hood he the man must be
Before them all to say grace.

'Pray God bless us all,' said jolly Robin,
'And our meat within this place;
A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood,
And so do I end my grace.'

'Come fill us more wine,' said jolly Robin,
'Let us be merry while we do stay;
For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear,
I vow I the reck'ning will pay.

'Come, 'brothers,' be merry,' said jolly Robin,
'Let us drink, and never give ore;
For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way,
If it cost me five pounds and more.'

'This is a mad blade,' the butchers then said;
Saies the sheriff, 'He is some prodigal,
That some land has sold for silver and gold,
And now he doth mean to spend all.

'Hast thou any horn beasts,' the sheriff repli'd,
'Good fellow, to sell unto me?'
'Yes, that I have, good master sheriff,
I have hundreds two or three;

'And a hundred aker of good free land,
If you please it to see:
And Ile make you as good assurance of it,
As ever my father made me.'

The sheriff he saddled his good palfrey,
And, with three hundred pound in gold,
Away he went with bold Robin Hood,
His horned beasts to behold.

Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,
To the forrest of merry Sherwood;
Then the sheriff did say, 'God bless us this day
From a man they call Robin Hood!'

But when a little farther they came,
Bold Robin he chanced to spy
A hundred head of good red deer,
Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.

'How like you my horn'd beasts, good master sheriff?
They be fat and fair for to see;'
'I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,
For I like not thy company.'

Then Robin set his horn to his mouth,
And blew but blasts three;
Then quickly anon there came Little John,
And all his company.

'What is your will, master?' then said Little John,
'Good master come tell unto me;'
'I have brought hither the sheriff of Nottingham
This day to dine with thee.'

'He is welcome to me,' then said Little John,
'I hope he will honestly pay;
I know he has gold, if it be but well told,
Will serve us to drink a whole day.'

Then Robin took his mantle from his back,
And laid it upon the ground:
And out of the sheriffs portmantle
He told three hundred pound.

Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood,
And set him on his dapple gray;
'O have me commanded to your wife at home;'
So Robin went laughing away.

poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Supermarket Shopping

A pound in the slot and out comes the chain,
It's Saturday supermarket shopping again,
And so I've obtained my large wire trolley,
And when shopping, you certainly need loads of lolly!

The shelves will be stacked with goodies galore,
There are loads to be seen from ceiling to floor,
Things that we need and things for a treat,
Food to have cold and food you must heat.

Bright coloured fruit and vegetables are,
Good for your health and keep you up to par,
Bread, rolls and biscuits, crisps and savoury snacks,
On their own, or in multiple packs.

Cheeses and yogurts, cream, butter and milk,
Some with strong flavours and some smooth as silk,
Sauces and pickles, mustards and dips,
Bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms and chips.

What gorgeous thoughts the word 'food' conjures up,
Especially if you're hungry and you wish to sup,
The aromas and spices, and sweet things and sour,
Shortcrust and flaky pastries, both of which are made with flour.

All kinds of fish dishes like haddock and dab,
Sardine, pilchard, tuna, anchovy and crab,
Squid if you like, it is lovely when fried,
It's really delicious to eat, have you tried?

Salmon of course, is the best of the lot,
This is a fish you can serve cold or hot,
With a salad to garnish, the taste is divine,
It's really become a great favourite of mine.

Desserts are mouth watering, they just have to be bought,
From gateaux's with chocolate, or a raspberry torte,
Strawberry pavlovas, or nutty meringues.
Each and everyone of them will answer your pangs.

Bottles of wine, of red and of white,
Champagne to drink on that one special night,
Maybe a gin, a vodka or sherry,
But with all of this, you can soon become merry.

So reaching the 'cash out' you stand there and check,
On all that you've purchased, it's only a speck,
Of what was on offer, one could buy up the lot,
But most likely you're contented with what you have got.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Reuben Bright

Because he was a butcher and thereby
Did earn an honest living (and did right),
I would not have you think that Reuben Bright
Was any more a brute than you or I;
For when they told him that his wife must die,
He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright,
And cried like a great baby half that night,
And made the women cry to see him cry.

And after she was dead, and he had paid
The singers and the sexton and the rest,
He packed a lot of things that she had made
Most mournfully away in an old chest
Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs
In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house.

poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Meet the hunter.

Meet the hunter.
Oh, the day past and the sun disappear,
Night come and is time to put on the mask,
Hunger and ready to go hunting,
Hungry for meats and sausages,
Any catch both would be nice,
Boys and girls make the best to impress.
Holy showing legs and chest;
In this tiger den, with all hungry meats eater!
Hunting for a big fatty meat!
Who know the hunter will be hunts?
Let see who play the game smarter?
Dress in suit and tie, who know empty pocket or full?
Stand up front, the look can easily past everyone eyes.
If lucky you got a free drink, mostly you digs on your own pocket,
Be real stranger to stranger, buy you drinks?
In this western den, buy your own sweetie.
You think, you wise, really a fool!
Everyone out smart one another,
and nobody is a fool.

poem by See Fee Lee
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In Yesterday's Lecture

yesterday i gave you
the president
of this country
and tell you
she is the strongest person
of our earth
and how she got the
royal prerogatives
of dishonesty

she is
dishonest but we keep her that way
to fulfill her task
of keeping us alive
and you complain
as a citizen

dare her not
on the yoke of her power she knows
perfectly the spot
where to butcher you like
a pig
or a chicken
or a duck
or a dog
or a turkey

inside our democratic prisons
we vote
for our death and annihilation
and she
holds the seal and she signs her name

mind you
after i have delivered the last lines
you say you begin
how not to understand power

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where all the poor in the village were buried?

Is this a cemetery?
The Gypsy Tinker, Negro Blacksmith, Grey-bearded Barber, One eyed Arabian butcher, Native Hangman & the family and the rest of all hide somewhere,
Nobody knows to point out so and so as no tombs were found there.
The flat graves show their innocence and poverty.
'Where is she? ' Hangman asks.
Butcher says; 'All are here brother and they are in a deep sleep.'
Hey! Now it's a playground for the children being a promise of the deceased dumb Mayor.

* Dedication to all the poet friends in the site.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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