The type that cuts me off a pound of bone
Wherefrom an ounce of fat forlornly drops,
And calls the thing two shillings' worth of chops;
More steeped in crime the heart that dares to fleece
My purse of eighteen-pence for one small piece
Of tripe, whereof, when times were not so hard,
The price was fourpence for the running yard!

Wherefore I hate thee, butcher, and would pass
Untempted of thy viands. But, alas!
The spirit that essays in master flights
To sip the honey from Parnassus' heights,
That daily doth his Pegasus bestride
And keeps the War from spoiling on the side,
Fails to be fostered by the sensuous sprout
Or with horse carrots blow its waistcoat out.
So, though I loathe thee, butcher, I must buy
The tokens of thy heartless usury.
Yet oft I dream that in some life to come,
Where no sharp pangs assail the poet's tum,
Athwart high sunburnt plains I drive my plough,
Untouched by earth's gross appetites, and thou,
My ox, my beast, goest groaning at the tugs,
And do I spare thy feelings? No, by jugs!
With tireless lash I probe thy leaden feet,
And beat and beat and beat and beat and beat.

ALGOL.

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