Tit Bits

‘Family Butcher’, it’s really absurd
The thoughts that are conjured by using that word,
Animal butcher is certainly true
But ‘family’ leaves you wondering who
The chosen group is that’s been butchered to death,
The very idea leaves you catching your breath.
If you think of the people that live down the road
You could allocate each with a dietary code,
Now all of those children of Benjamin Keen
Would be jolly good value, all trim and so lean,
But what of the aunties of Gregory Jones,
Not a great deal of meat and yet plenty of bones.
And as for the Pratts and their all-over tan,
They’re already pre-cooked, just heat in the pan.
The Twitchens, so prim, would be sold oven ready,
Just a turn on the spit now and then, nice and steady,
But old Freddy Bloggs would, I think, be too tough,
And little Miss Richards would not be enough.
The Garlicks you’d serve with a fair pinch of spice,
Though I still wouldn’t think that they’d taste very nice,
And greasy Bill Tippen would come ready basted,
But what with his acne they’d be a lot wasted,
The very suggestion of chewing that gent
The idea's enough to give meat up for Lent!