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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!
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