“Can I carve your meat, my friend?”
He laughed — laughed past wits’ end.
And hung a painting of a goat:
“I did this art as a joke.”
Sizzling, guzzling lawyer’s leg,
He chopped — and chopped — and chopped again.
Hung a girl with an artist’s dream;
She sold her arms, or so it seemed.
And in my soup, as I did gaze,
I saw the cranium of my head —
Mixed with carrots, chopped with glee.
I saw the butcher in me.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 3:20 PM UTC
“Can I carve your meat, my friend?”
He laughed — laughed past wits’ end.
And hung a painting of a goat:
“I did this art as a joke.”
Sizzling, guzzling lawyer’s leg,
He chopped — and chopped — and chopped again.
Hung a girl with an artist’s dream;
She sold her arms, or so it seemed.
And in my soup, as I did gaze,
I saw the cranium of my head —
Mixed with carrots, chopped with glee.
I saw the butcher in me.
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