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The Butcher

The Butcher is well-mannered and

Polite in many ways

Always there to serve you quick

All week (except Sundays)

There he is a-smilin’ wide

With hale “Hello!” he’ll greet

Behind the counter whistling low

He chops and grinds the meat

He’s got the cuts that people want

For that he is well paid

He trims with skill, there’s little waste

His stock is highest grade

And one of his most special bits

He’s known for as The Best

Is kept behind the counter and

He gives out by request

The Butcher is an expert, so

On this, he’ll stake his life

This muscle that sits in the skull

Is untouched by his knife

A delicate and fragile thing

Extracted with much pain

Is handled with the lightest touch

This organ, known as brain…

Its flesh is pale, its visage pure

It’s texture smooth as silk

This victual needs lightest touch

Just let it steep in milk

Then in the finest butter found

It’s faintly fried in pan

A sauce that’s made with capers tart

A beurre noir would be grand!

It is the most delicious prize

As food, should be top-billed

A luxury that few will eat

But when they do, they’re thrilled

Let not repulsion turn you round

From trying this rare treat

If you do, you’ll find that it’s

The best thing you can eat

The Butcher knows, in him you trust

For this morsel so exquisite

That comes from grass-fed local beast

He guarantees… or does it?

(Just take a bite, and close your eyes

Transported every time

You needn’t think of what it is

Just that it tastes sublime…)

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