[John Whitworth]

I reckon horses are in.

My burger is made out of horse,
A shame and a scandal of course.
It tastes like minced shit
But I don't mind a bit
So long as they tell me the source.

My sausage is mostly dead dobbin,
Looking rather like something you'd gob in,
Plus it tastes like a turd,
But I don't say a word.
(It's a case of political jobbing.)

You know, this is fun. I once worked in a brewery in Edinburgh. Pissing in the beer was the least of it.

The beer in that boozer we kissed in
Tastes like something some bugger just pissed in,
And the pies are pure shite,
But what made it all right
Was the publican's face with my fist in

[Jerome Betts]

A bright start, John

A tourist not far from Cape Cod
Sniffed his grill and exclaimed, ‘Very odd!
I expect defunct bovine
Mixed with porcine and ovine
Not something that had to be shod!’


A diner said ‘Damn it! I’m suing!
What on earth was this beast I’ve been chewing?
Did it spend its life neighing
Or – God forbid!– braying
Instead of in lowing or mooing?’

[Brian Allgar]

Verse in the NS? What are these lefties coming to, eh, John?

I’d ordered a well-done filet
Advertised as the dish of the day.
But I felt rather silly
When I found it was filly;
One bite, and I had to say “Nay!”

Not surprisingly, Frogs will eat frogs
And other things living in bogs;
Yet even they shun
In a hamburger bun
Bits of rats, or of cats, or of dogs.

I opened a tin of fish stew,
But my misgivings rapidly grew.
What creature that’s finny
Has hooves and can whinny,
Or smells of equestrian poo?

We went to our local Chinese
With “Confucius”, our dear Pekinese.
We asked for a bowl,
But they served him up whole
With a sauce that they’d made from his fleas.

[Roger Slater]

I love to eat lobster and scallop,
And caviar, maybe a dollop,
But certainly not
A beast that can trot
Or canter, or god forbid, gallop.

[John Whitworth]

The old jokes are the best, are they not?

'Good God!' I exclaimed, as I bit
On my fillet of horse, 'This is shit!'
'But' (a bow to my wife,
The stay of my life),
'It is perfectly cooked, I admit.'

I must think of some less fecal rhymes.

[Brian Allgar]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

I must think of some less fecal rhymes.

John Whitworth was fond of scatology;
He’d written a massive anthology.
His doctoral thesis,
A paper on faeces,
Was shit - or is that a tautology?

[John Whitworth]

Touche (with a bloody accent). I fear at school those not entirely happy with my beautiful personality used to refer to me as shitworth. How nasty of them!

[dean peterson]

My lord, new here I'd missed this section until now, which was essentially the terrain of Edmund Conti and Norman Ball, over at the Alsop Gazebo poetry website years ago.

I especially like Jerome's second one (Page 1) I can't add anything but my cousin Greg's perfunctory Sunday prayer back when we were kids: good food good meat, good God let's eat.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=c1TEssqdyGw

So much fun, oh them beans.

[Brian Allgar]

Two rivals for lovely Laetitia
Were told that she’d marry the dishier.
So master-chef Donald
Made mincemeat of Ronald
And served him as “Beef Amatricia”.

[Graham King]

Originally Posted by Brian Allgar

...
With a sauce that they’d made from his fleas.

That last line caps it for me, Brian. Masterful!