A day at the butcher shop

It was the kind of pleasant day,
When no one hurried to hit the hay,
And the sun smiled out of papier-mâché,
And all was yellow and bright and white
And all such expressions trite,
To whisper and chuckle at my delight,
And a swirling and humming dragon flea,
Buzzing o'er my head in it’s undiscovered glee,
And buzzing around a meatloaf melee,
As I sat with my elbow on a bloodless table,
With my apron as clean my soul was able,
To keep desires on a leash and a cable,
While T.V. was busy in conversing with static,
Their discussion being confusing and erratic,
Released my mind to wander out the attic,
Into the meadows where Svetlana might be lying,
Soaking sun and shadows of seagulls flying,
Much to her mirth was their horrible crying,
When all I could hear was the butcher’s insults,
But then I thought of really huge catapults,
And I thought of catapulting catapults,
Later the butcher severely insisted,
That I chop down the pork that had resisted,
The advances of the other knife-fisted,
Members of the butcher clan,
Feeding the village with their master plan,
And rescuing them from fibrous bran,
So I took a knife from his stained hands,
Reluctant battles I had fought on commands,
To meet the butcher’s cruel demands,
I chopped pork for the fork wielding goons,
I sliced baboons for the ones with the spoons,
But halfway in my journey between Jupiter’s moons,
I caught Ganymede’s frivolous eye,
Now my burning dilemma wouldn’t let me cry,
But If I don’t stop murdering, I may never die.



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