Old Macdonald had a butcher shop
whose window he laid out with an art
more appropriate to a jewellers,
each prime cut
sirloin, top side, silver side,
rump, exquisitely done up
in its basting and string.
Mr Macdonald prided himself on his gift wrapping.
The hand reared gentility of his flock
he was proud to boast, ran more
than skin deep, a simplicity
bred through and through,
no fibrous cracks marred its glossy flesh.
It was easy to believe
that his steaks, fillets and chops
were born to lie dismembered in the window of that shop.
But Mr Macdonald, I can't help considering
how your briskets, legs and a wing
would be better off living.
In my mind's eye
I jump them all back together again
into some genetic cross breed,
which is what you get if you cross a pig, a sheep and a cow.