To A Sausage – a New Year poem, after Shelley

To a sausage, by Andrew

No longer shalt thou graze upon the sunny slopes of Graupius Mons
With thy siblings. Thou, with they, wert cruelly taken, and
Brought at length, in chains, to Eboracum. There, in close captivity,
Thou wert fattened, plumped and forced into a shallow grave
Of eightfold woe, to lie in sulphureous proximity
With thy fellows, as ‘twere in thy infant bed.
Ah, cruel jest! For to my mother’s hands thou wert delivered.
Whilst I did gambol and skip beneath her kindly eye.
Thou didst die the triple death. ‘Turn, turn, turn’
She cried, till all thy numberless sides were scorched.
But thou hadst passed away long since. And yet
To my childish gaze, beneath the shell of crusted hardiness,
A rosy core still glowed, as with fragile hope.
‘Fear not’, said I, ‘thou wilt be changed into another
Softer, grander form, greatly similar in shape and hue.
Thou shalt pass, by many stages. back to the ocean,
There to be consumed by a piscine denizen of the deep.
And so thou wilt return, fair spirit, to Nature’s womb.
Would that thou mightst escape a second culinary doom.’

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