Poets should eat more meat.

Birds cry
And lovers lie
In sylvan glades and shady nooks
And sigh.

Bees drone
And lovers groan
With eyes aglow and soulful looks
And moan.

Poets long
And sing their song -
Anaemic, euphemistic muck! -
How wrong.

Oh, please! Give me a steak,


Hot and hissing,
Pink and sizzling,
Plumply spread across my eager plate;
Red with blood, flecked white with dripping fat;
Egg-yolk yellow,
Onions smelling
Scorched, with bloated mushrooms gilled in black.
Hunger oozing,
Juices drooling,
Mingling, melting, burning the back
Of my gulping throat,
So fast I choke,
Too fast to last,
Bursts in my belly, an orgasmic blast

What a load of rubbish!