Dean Whitbread

usefully imaginative since 1984 
Filed under

butcher

 

The Ballad of Jogging Butcher

"Thank God I'm fit as a butcher's dog
Or that would have had me pegged"
His oily sweat like liquid lard
Drips from a roast beef leg

A half-moon stain beneath his chin
Spreads like a messy baby
The darker reek of two rank pits
Unadulterated for the ladies

Filed under  //   butcher   poem  

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