Skin is but a thin, thin leaf,
Flesh is meat, and meat is good,
Bone is hard, but bone is sweet,
Under that, who knows, who could?
Blood is sour, blood is blue,
Veins are stringy, tasty too,
Heart's a muscle, not the soul,
And I don't mind even lungs at all.
Nerves are tender, tender things,
Pluck them, and make for spicy meal,
Play them as they were guitar strings,
And see how gourmet that soup would feel.
Eyes, oh eyes, exquisite blue,
(Brown and green as well will do,)
Look if what they see is true,
Look before I eat them too.