The Aristocratic Cockroach
Standing in the cold-room, covered in a large white apron,
Gory splashes of blood soaking in patches,
A plastic face mask shielding my eyes,
Splattered with the offal it thankfully catches.
I butcher the meat from the suckling bones,
Stripping the skeleton naked and lean,
While holding an electric conversation with an aristocratic cockroach,
All about the most delicious cuisine.
I’m trying to hide a smile, a giggle, a great belly laugh,
At the little cockroach standing there in disgust,
Stepping back to keep his tuxedo free from blood and guts,
As his shiny black walking stick slips, breaking through the gore and pus.
His beady black eyes glitter in horror,
One eye monocled to combat his short sightedness,
Prim and proper he rounds his vowels,
As I go about my butchering with single mindedness.
I began sizing up this aristocratic cockroach,
As he was a good size with his beefed up legs and belly of fat,
I remember thinking he could be tonight’s entree,
Watching him squirm at the sight of me butchering this rat.
We moved to more lighthearted topics, earning a laugh or two,
As this aristocratic cockroach began to relax,
He’d forgotten what I was doing as I moved to the next body on the rack,
Dressing this one in a sauce of potent herbs and vegetable wax.
I was hypnotised by his deep, raspy kind of voice,
Not hearing the actual words he was throwing my way in a crisp, clean manner,
When he suddenly spies the axe I have silently picked up,
Quickly telling me it was time for him to leave, he was due home at his manor.
Before the aristocratic cockroach could scamper off, I suddenly asked,
“But Mr Moulder, won’t you please stay and enjoy the meal,”