Donner Und Blitzen
Drunk and feeling slightly shabby,
buys himself a huge kebab. He
wonders, just before he eats it:
“Actually, what kind of meat’s it?”
For, given their surprising cheapness,
in spite of doubtful claims of sheepness,
the word “Kebab’s” synonymous
with animals anonymous:
Who knows which beast has thus been cleaved?
Perhaps the takeaway’s received
some council-granted invitation
to cull the pigeon population;
Perhaps it’s hedgehog, vole or stoat,
or killer whale, or antelope,
perhaps, congealed into a clot,
the offal of an ocelot;
Perhaps the marinated gizzards
of spiny spicy Chinese lizards,
delicately black-bean-sautéed
panda (black-market-importéed);
Species from the Petri dishes
found in the primordial fridges
owned by Alexander Fleming,
garnished with a slice of lemming;
Narwhal, llama, kinkajou,
a slab of greater-spotted gnu,
or something from the Serengeti,
Loch Ness Monster, Snark, or Yeti;
The lightly-toasted scrotal sacs
of mystical Tibetan yaks;
On these and many more horrendous
possibilities he pores – but then,
whilst in these fantasies immersed,
the most horrific thought occurs:
That sign upon the takeout wall
might not be misspelt, after all:
The special offer: “Why not treat
yourself to chips and Donor Meat?”
Appalled, and in a pious disgust,
full-drunkenly, he cries out, thus:
“I want to know, when I bequest
my innards to the NHS,
that they’d be used to save the skin
of those who’ve done their kidneys in,
or know that when, at last, I’m dead
my sweetbreads might be hacked to shreds
by student surgeons, high on Calpol,
drunk in charge of sharpened scalpels,
not embalmed until they’re bitter,
stuffed into a freeze-dried pitta’s
slightly-leavened epidermis, by
some gastronomic taxidermist!”
Pickled, still, and feeling queasy,
wishing he’d had chips and cheese, he
takes two bites, his stomach perching
on the edge of violent lurching,
hears a still, small voice inside
say “this kebab is suicide”,
and, in a flash of common sense,
he dashes for the nearest Gents
chucks it straight
into the pan…
thus cutting out
the middleman.
Picture credit: Eaeeae – Wikipedia, under Creative Commons Licence
