Friday, 8 January 2010


I woke up about three am
And my bed was empty.
I went downstairs
And saw a light shining
Under the kitchen door.
I opened it, and in front
Of the fridge, enthralled,
A huddled figure over the ledge,
Doing nothing for her health.
I didn’t even have to look to
Notice the empty packets on the floor,
The rustling of cellophane did it, as she dived in for more.

She says “To get myself off, I don’t need sex,
Just show me the fridge and I’ll start on the next
Packet of bacon, or sausage skin;
Talk beef to me baby

Well we were walking
Down the street
Past the butcher’s place,
And she went into a trance,
And danced on in.
She started stroking the lamb,
And sides of pork,
And licking everything,
You should have seen the butcher man.
Then she ripped off her clothes
And jumped into the window tray.
She was dipping and squirming and turning,
And looking at home.
Then she started sticking, and
Had an orgasm on a rump stake,
For Christ’s sake.

She says “To turn me on, don’t touch me there,
Take me to the meat man’s place and let me smell the air.
Liver, raw and crackling skin,
Talk beef to me

Well I woke up this morning,
And my leg was burning,
On fire.
I looked at my thigh,
And saw a hole
Where some skin used to be,
I looked further down,
And she was starting on my knee.

She’s a raw meat freak, who says “Talk meat delights
In my ear, and then let me nibble yours”
I try to deny her these things, but I love her,
And maybe I’ve got problems, because now when I
Want to turn her on, I spread meat paste on my skin,
And talk beef to her,

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