Beef Wellington
Crisp is the crust flaked,
Surrounding the tenderloin sweeten meat.
That has been liver patéd...
With onion and mushroom,
Within this pastry doughed to eat.
And after heating in the oven,
Buttered and cooled...
This beef wellington's a treat!
When eaten is so hard to overrule.
And if you're using red wine,
The time to dine will find your guests...
Converted into hooked,
Finger licking lip smacking believers!
'That' they will confess.
When the stomach is delighted,
A joy lights up the eyes.
And never leave them.
With a taste of wellington,
The tongues of more than one will want..
Repeaters.
Of this good beefy meat...
Cooked to satisfy and treat.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
One Meat Ball
(l. singer-h.zaret)
The little man walked up and down
To find an eating place in town
He read the menu through and through
To see what fifteen cents could do
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, he could afford but one meat ball
He told the waiter near at hand
A simple dinner he had planned
The guests were startled one and all to hear
That waiter loudly call
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, this here gent wants one meat ball
Little man felt very bad
One meat ball was all he had
And in his dreams he hears that call
Ya gets no bread with one meat ball
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, you get no bread with one meat ball
Well, he could afford but one meat ball
One meat ball, one meat ball
All he could afford was one meat ball
One meat ball
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another Piece of Juicy Meat to Satisfy Me!
Don't fiddle with my love,
Or heartstrings.
To pluck them to get heated.
Then to walk out on a chemistry...
Just to get some empathy.
If you leave me with a final sting...
I could not forgive or forget,
Who did the giving.
And who will not be getting it!
I'm about to make up my mind...
I can get another to appreciate me!
I'm about to go out and find...
Another piece of juicy meat I know I'll love to eat!
A piece of juicy meat that's not a big tease.
Don't fiddle with my love,
Or heartstrings.
To pluck them to get heated.
Then to walk out on a chemistry!
Don't fiddle with my love,
Or heartstrings.
Just to get some empathy.
You wont get that not from me!
If you leave me with a final sting...
I could not forgive or forget,
Who did the giving.
And who will not be getting it!
I'm about to make up my mind...
I can get another to appreciate me!
I'm about to go and find...
Another piece of juicy meat to please all my needs!
Another piece of juicy meat to please all my needs!
Another piece of juicy meat to satisfy me!
Don'tcha know,
I'm about to make up my mind...
I can get another to appreciate me!
I'm about to go and find...
Another piece of juicy meat to please all my needs!
Another piece of juicy meat to please all my needs!
Another piece of juicy meat to satisfy me!
I'm about to make up my mind...
I can get another knowing,
What appreciation means!
I'm about to make up my mind...
I can get another to appreciate me!
Another piece of juicy meat to please all my needs!
Another piece of juicy meat to please all my needs!
Another piece of juicy meat to satisfy me!
Another piece of juicy meat to give up my seed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Memory.
Memory of your mother
rolling pastry
and you watching
her hands
and the rolling pin
and the way the pastry
was pushed down
and out
and then she took
the pastry
and put it over a dish
and spooned in
the cooked beef
and onions
and then placed another
rolled out piece
of pastry on top
and forked down
the edges of the pastry
and she said
do you want
the end clippings?
and you said
sure why not
and she gave you
the clipped off pasty
raw in your hands
and you began to eat
noticing how red
and raw and worn
her fingers
and hands were
and how tired
her eyes looked
and wiping hair
from her eyes
with the back
of her floured hand
she pushed out a sigh
and you saw there
how a thousand dreams
of young girls die.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For Molly, Concerning God
Is God the one who eats the meat
off the bones of dead people?
-Molly Miranda Jong-Fast, age 3 1/2
God is the one,
Molly,
whether we call him
Him,
or Her,
treeform or spewing
volcano,
Vesuvius or vulva,
penis-rock,
or reindeer-on-cave-wall,
God is the one
who eats
our meat,
Molly,
& we yield
our meat
up willingly.
Meat is our
element,
meat is our
lesson.
When our bodies fill
with each other,
when our blood swells
in our organs
aching for another,
body of meat,
heart of meat,
soul of meat,
we are only doing
what God wants
us to—
meat joining meat
to become insubstantial air,
meat fusing
with meat
to make
a small wonder
like you.
The wonder of you
is that you push
our questions
along into
the future—
so that I know
again
the wonder of meat
through you,
the wonder of meat
turning to philosophy,
the wonder of meat
transubstantiated
into poetry,
the wonder of
sky-blue meat
in your roundest eyes,
the wonder of
dawn-colored meat
in your cheeks & palms,
the wonder of meat
becoming
air.
You
are my theorem,
my proof,
my meaty metaphysics,
my little questioner,
my small Socrates
of the nursery-schoolyard.
To think that
such wonder
can come from meat!
Well then,
if God is hungry—
let Him eat,
let Her eat.
poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Works Hard For The Money
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
Onetta there in the corner stand
and wonders where she is and
it's strange to her
some people seem to have everything
Nine a.m. on the hour hand
and she's waiting for the bell
and she's looking real pretty
just wait for her clientele
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
Twenty five years have
come and gone
and she' seen a lot of tears
of the ones who come in
they really seem to need her there
It's a sacrifice working day to day
for little money just tips for pay
But it's worth it all
just to hear them say that they care
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She already knows
she's seen her bad times
she already knows
these are the good times
She'll never sell out
she never will
not for a dollar bill
she works hard
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
song performed by by Donna Summer from The Donna Summer Anthology
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Culinary choice
He was a lover of meat
and she was a lover of veg'
so between them it was a treat
to dine on spaghetti instead.
They'd suck and they'd slurp
and they'd dribble,
spaghetti was so hard to nibble
but low and behold
the sauce made a glow
all over their chins
and the table.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Choices
i prefer smooth peanut butter
to crunchy
mind you
crunchy is all right
but i prefer smooth.
i prefer strawberry jam
to raspberry
mind you
raspberry is tasty
but it's got all those seeds
and i prefer strawberry.
i prefer mustard
to mayonaisse
mind you mayonaisse has it's place
amongst condiments
but is likely to go bad
if left out to long
and poison everyone
so on the whole i prefer mustard.
i prefer cooked meat
to raw meat
for much the same reason
as i prefer mustard to mayonaisse
although it also has to do
with the fact that i don't
like my meat to bleat
or moo or make chicken noises (BAGOCK!)
when i eat
so i tend to avoid the raw
though mind you
the meat that i prefer
may at some time have been raw.
i prefer not to say
why i think so
but i do
and i suppose it's all
just a matter of taste
so if you'd prefer to think so
then crunchy is better
than smooth
even if it does interfere
with the texture of the
peanut butter
and jelly (strawberry) sandwich
which ought to be somewhat
devoid of substance
merely a sticky sweet something
to fill your stomach
put mayonaisse on it
if you like
i'd prefer not to think about it.
poem by Laura Sewell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who Have Done A Great Sin?
The person who killed a living being, say animal or bird
The person who has supported and witnessed the killing
The person who bought the meat of the deceased animal and bird;
If you think twice, even
The person who cooked the meat of the same and
The person who ate the cooked meat;
All the five are considered to have done a great sin.
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Don't Risk Your Biscuits
Don't risk your biscuits.
Keep those biscuits mystic.
If they're found delicious,
Keep the people licking their lips.
Do not risk those biscuits,
For suggestions or tips.
From others who just want them to be,
Buttered and split!
When you took them out the oven,
You knew then the flavor would...
Bring joy to some.
Like no others had done.
And when they jellied up those biscuits,
With a favorite beverage...
A stirring had begun.
Making your biscuits their number one.
Do not risk those biscuits,
For suggestions or tips.
From others who just want them to be,
Buttered and split!
Eaten and enjoyed.
Making a habit of it!
You can choose and decide,
If you want them addicted!
But...
When you took them out the oven,
You knew then the flavor would...
Bring joy to some.
Like no others had done.
So...
Don't risk your biscuits.
Keep those biscuits mystic.
If they're found delicious,
Keep the people licking their lips.
Knowing only you,
Can do these biscuits like this!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stewed for Taste
Naturally...
If one is fed nonsense,
That is all one knows to accept.
Anything else that may be better to digest...
Will get a rejection,
If it is not marketed to infest...
As the best for one of limited consciousness.
And limitations imposed,
Will be sold as those to be correct!
With an affectiveness,
To produce what one expects!
Naturally.
And with less effort.
Especially,
If some are treated as meat.
And seasoned to be eaten,
As a selected treat!
Leaving the unsuspected,
To be gobbled up like sheep.
Once left...
To sit,
Brewing and stewed for taste!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chicken And Vegetables
it was time to sit down to pleasure eat
the vegetables looked so juicy so good
cut beautifully presented all appealed
to the eye this part of meal all must eat
but oil juice soiled had a taste could not eat
two pieces of chicken drumsticks next appealed
fresh looked crisp brown cooked to perfection
upon first every bite oh how supreme tasty sweet
what was the hand that soiled the vegetable oil?
what was the hand that blessed the tender meat?
when clapping these hands never never meet
taste offering as heart’s condition bitter or sweet
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poor men seek meat for their stomach, rich men stomach for their meat.
Hannibal's Lecture a cautionary tale
She was pretty clean and neat
from her head to her bare feet.
The kind of girl to whom I cater.
She looked good enough to eat.
so I did I cooked and ate her.
Now she has become part of me.
Although perhaps you won’t agree
I did the only thing I could
I made a maiden fricassee
I have to say she tasted good.
My given name is Hannibal
an unasham’ed cannibal.
I see no reason to waste meat
I am convinced that after all
Fresh human flesh is good to eat.
I was locked up but I broke free
as I think rather cleverly.
I prowl the streets in search of prey.
There is no prison can hold me.
Maybe you’ll meet me one fine day.
I do look rather ordinary
There’s nothing visible to see
to mark me out from other men
I tell you confidentially
That I intend to feast again.
Perhaps I have selected you
to be one of the chosen few
To satisfy my appetite,
to braise or roast or make a stew.
To dine upon tomorrow night
But do not worry you won’t know.
I’ll kill you with a single blow
I don’t believe in cruelty
I’ll kill you quick but cook you slow.
Enjoy you Gastronomically
Although recognise my name
I am quite certain when I claim
That should we meet one day by chance,
as part and parcel of life’s game
I would not rate a second glance.
This is the key to my success
I do not dress up to impress.
So should I ask you out to dine
there is no chance that you might guess
That the pleasure will be all mine
I’m Hannibal the Cannibal
a predatory animal
I find the taste of humans sweet
To you its reprehensible
to me you are a source of meat.
I dare to break this strict taboo
which makes me different from you
I see no reason for the ban
Although you may deny it’s true
but man has always preyed on man.
Now who am I to change the rules?
although they are not taught in schools.
I believe that they should be
If only to protect the fools.
From roving predators like me.
30-Nov-08
Http: // blog.my space.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Giggolo Ready
If it's full of flavor...
And matched to the taste I like.
Appealing to a look,
That increases my appetite.
I am sure I will bite into it!
Exploring an excitement...
Unknown by you before!
If the meat is tender and sweet.
Garnished with those sculptured,
Roasted heated beets.
I'll guarantee an increased juiciness.
If you desire a repeated meet.
The beef...
Thick and succulent!
The treat...
Seasoned just right!
If that glass of red wine fulfills.
And served in a goblet in my sight!
I do prefer Moët.
Add that to the tab you pay tonight.
Since I did promise the performance...
The best ever given,
In my life!
And...
I am giggolo ready!
'...and we might need more,
Champagne.
Just in case there's
Bed stains.
I don't want to leave any evidence.
If your promise leaves me...
Leaking regained teenage senselessness.'
'...and we might need more,
Champagne.
Just in case there's
Bed stains.
I don't want to leave any evidence.
If your promise leaves me...
Leaking regained teenage senselessness.'
It's okay!
We'll pretend I am your daddy!
'No!
If the headboard knocks...
You'll hear my shouts for 'poppa'.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dark Meat Of Darkness
Discover a land so shadowed with darkness,
It spreads like dark flowers around the land.
The reality is bitter, falling away like silver has dropped
Into a chasm to be rebuilt as gold.
Retrieve this gold, when the goats of meat
Are cooked above a burning fire,
And then the gold can be filling the meat
So that it is worth more to eat.
To eat the gold, you must defeat
Shadows of the land, and the goats
Of meat have clung to the land then,
And after this you have paid for the good.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Against Grocers
God made the wicked Grocer
For a mystery and a sign,
That men might shun the awful shops
And go to inns to dine;
Where the bacon's on the rafter
And the wine is in the wood,
And God that made good laughter
Has seen that they are good.
The evil-hearted Grocer
Would call his mother "Ma'am,"
And bow at her and bob at her,
Her aged soul to damn,
And rub his horrid hands and ask
What article was next
Though MORTIS IN ARTICULO
Should be her proper text.
His props are not his children,
But pert lads underpaid,
Who call out "Cash!" and bang about
To work his wicked trade;
He keeps a lady in a cage
Most cruelly all day,
And makes her count and calls her "Miss"
Until she fades away.
The righteous minds of innkeepers
Induce them now and then
To crack a bottle with a friend
Or treat unmoneyed men,
But who hath seen the Grocer
Treat housemaids to his teas
Or crack a bottle of fish sauce
Or stand a man a cheese?
He sells us sands of Araby
As sugar for cash down;
He sweeps his shop and sells the dust
The purest salt in town,
He crams with cans of poisoned meat
Poor subjects of the King,
And when they die by thousands
Why, he laughs like anything.
The wicked Grocer groces
In spirits and in wine,
Not frankly and in fellowship
As men in inns do dine;
But packed with soap and sardines
And carried off by grooms,
For to be snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing-rooms.
The hell-instructed Grocer
Has a temple made of tin,
And the ruin of good innkeepers
Is loudly urged therein;
But now the sands are running out
From sugar of a sort,
The Grocer trembles; for his time,
Just like his weight, is short.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wasps are Carnivores
Wasps are carnivores
Yes they eat meat
Aggressive meat eaters
mean meat eating stinging machines
I am not vegetarian
But I don't have a sting in my tail
Bloody wasps spoil the summer.
I googled to see if they did anything useful
I didn't like what I found
Without them, wine would not exist.
Ok ok I don't hate you quite as much
But is this why you are so smug?
Sometimes after wine I get a sting in my tail!
poem by Stevie Taite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cafe Of Dreams
welcome to the cafe
the cafe of dreams
the cattle stand dry
dry of mouth parched
awaiting their slaughter
so that a tired worker
may enjoy a good steak
meat pie or sausages
ground meat salt herbs spices
fried lovingly in your frying pan
not young mince meat dying
politic rhetoric in Afghanistan
slaugherhouse cafe is open
not only for teenagers who
dine 'Café des Abbatoirs'
die daily like passing cattle
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Hunt
I hunt.
For specific kinds of meat.
I hunt.
To feed that desire within me I seek.
I hunt.
I do not keep my needs a secret.
I do not wish to discreet them in any way.
I hunt.
I want this known.
I want it easy for the meat,
To be captured and seasoned.
With a sauté done to taste.
And delayed at a minimum wait.
I hunt.
For specific kinds of meat.
I hunt.
To feed that desire within me I seek.
I hunt.
To satisfy what it is I do.
And grunt...
Sometimes,
Just before the morning dew appears.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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