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…)