Lawrie Stanford: Timeless Tales Retold in Verse – On the Farm

 Dad took us up to Angie’s farm
 to visit his older sister.
 He said we’d likely stay four weeks,
 it’d been a while and he missed her.
  
 We were greeted there with bad news,
 ‘Feathers’ the fowl had just expired.
 No more cluck-cluck or peck-peck’n,
 she was old and had grown so tired.
  
 But Angie wasn’t much bothered,
 it was just an every-day matter,
 she settled down to her work,
 that night was giblets in batter.
  
 Breakfast arrived the next morning,
 yielding chicken-liver paté.
 Served on toast, smeared with lard,
 made with chicken-fat I’d say.
  
 But lunch was much more wholesome,
 we were served up chicken wings,
 bulking-up the meagre portion,
 mashed entrails and other things.
  
 The next evening meal was special,
 drumsticks emerged at last,
 but shared among the many,
 it felt more like a fast.
  
 Then came the following morning,
 chicken again—we were aghast!
 Braised kidney, liver, spleen on plates—
 how long will this torture last?
  
 But Angie wasn’t much bothered,
 it was just an every-day matter,
 she settled down to her work,
 though we weren’t gettin’ any fatter.
  
 So lunch was bowl of chicken soup,
 head, feet what else—who knows?
 and as I looked more closely,
 there it was—the parson’s nose.
  
 That night there was a relative feast,
 it was a curried chicken-breast,
 but served with cloaca crackle,
 it proved to be quite a test.
  
 Together with heart and lungs,
 the third evening was chicken shank,
 thin legs, no bulk, were a problem
 and the smell was getting rank.
  
 Then chicken haggis in the morning,
 surely, the last chicken course?
 with a cheeky brown over-pouring
 of a blended ovarian sauce.
  
 But enter, divine salvation,
 well actually, more bad news,
 the pet lamb died of constipation,
 he hadn’t been doing his poos.
  
 Goodness me! I thought in wonder,
 about the death ‘round here of late,
 perhaps all the stock on this farm 
 had reached their use-by date?
  
 But Angie wasn’t much bothered,
 it was just an every-day matter,
 she settled down to her work,
 and prepared a cold-mutton platter.
  
 It was a sort-of relief that followed,
 to have confirmed, the change in the fare,
 lamb chops were served at breakfast,
 with a glaze, done medium-rare.  
  
 I swallowed the lamb-brains lunch,
 though a bit of a waste I fear,
 when I had to leave the table,
 with violent diarrhoea.
  
 But shank served up in the evening
 (despite my stomach’s contortions)
 as well as lamb’s-blood haggis,
 was at least, in decent proportions.
  
 The most horrible thing then happened,
 Uncle Don passed away overnight,
 while unknown exactly what killed him,
 his tummy seemed rather tight.
  
 But Angie wasn’t much bothered,
 though the matter she said was so-so,
 but Dad announced very quickly,
 there’s a problem at home
                        —we gotta go!