Ode to the lost Oxtail

Ode to the lost Oxtail Our butchers shop lies empty. The saleroom hammer’s final drop And from the butchers block ne’er another chop To startle staid ladies, their baskets askew Or hand over bulging packets of promise and stew. Dreaming Audlem dogs the marrow bones miss And mournful on hearthrugs, look forlorn. And Cheshire Street look less replete, No cheery wave from shop recess or bustle in yard As from depths chilled some shoulder, hock, or sweetbread emerges to entreat And in local kitchen make life more complete. Proselytising vegans with averted gaze and missionary zeal Their contempt no more need trouble conceal, as they leave the car park village bound. The depleted street offers no horror to distress or delicate sensibilities confound And meat eaters, what of us, in butcherless contemplation of life? The modest emporium of choice cuts, suffered without stun the cruellest cut, No fresh offal to ease impoverished village bowels or calm life’s strife. But plastic embalmed from distant parts must we source our less wholesome fair BOGOF – the strident proclamation over lifeless sausage brings dismay As though the humble stomach, such double jeopardy could yet endure. Meanwhile alas, the shop in empty desolation offers no more cheer and so seeking desperate Consolation, slope off to the pub and with pint in hand, down the last drop, lest we shed a tear.

Sir Loin de Brisket

(Audlem Online adds: "Our thanks to our local poet for these poignant thoughts. We have been hearing rumours of possible good news for Sir Loin about the shop. We cannot publish as yet but will as soon as we have more definite information.)

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