The other night I was scanning through my digital photo collection, and happened upon this photo of sausages in a wooden bowl. The sausages, four of each variety were bought from a local butchers shop last summer and bar-b-qued for my girlfriend and her sister the very same day. While I have no memory of consuming them, the disvovery of this photo inspired the following poem:
Sixteen sausages,
from the butcher I did buy,
All this meaty goodness,
Too sweet to bake or fry.
Succulent and tasty,
thy fat doth overflow,
atop the blazing charcol,
siziling in its glow.
Oh tragic life, oh mournful pigs,
whose brothers’ ground for meat,
I salute you know, but next chow
this most carniv’rous treat.
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