Butcher’s Choice
There’s only one
apostrophe.
On the packet. Quite
clear,
signifying singular:
‘Butcher’s Choice’ it
assures us,
slapped on the thin
plastic packet
which some machine
took no time at all to
wrap it
in. Purporting to be
sausages,
high quality product,
porkers -
a year before a walker
as Squeeze would have it
in reverse – appropriate,
you’d think,
but fry them, they shrink
and water come a mi eye.
I wonder what they’re
stuffed with?
Sage? Onions? Certainly
not bone
sawdust or reclaimed
gristle – no
that’d be bang out of
whack,
this is quality and that’s
that –
but I microwaved one
for a shade too long
and it turned into brick.
That or a pale thin
anaemic thing
you’d get arrested for
quick
if you waved it at a
trusting public.
They claim with maximum
fuss:
‘Good food for all of us,’
in orange wobbly Mary Ann
sans serif –
but quick! quick!
Send for the sheriff -
I’ve seen shopfronts
of affronted butchers
murder in mind, downing
hooks,
wielding hand saws and
cleavers,
taking to a nation’s
streets
screaming: ‘Where’s the
fucking butcher
who chose these?’
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