(slowly, in an old English accent)

Sir, can I have some streaky bacon, with a yard of sausage and some chicken fat?
Or mince meat pie made of this and that?
Perhaps some bread and stinky tripe,
or a gosling goose that's hung till' ripe? 
Or a portly pig, this side of squeal,
and spoons of gravy with sautéed veal?
Bacon grease on morning eggs,
or jars of piggies' pickled legs?
Maybe some liver wrapped in wurst,
or thick cow tongue that once knew thirst?
Or Should I try some salted lung,
or kidneys where the Stones once sung?
Whatever the case I shall delight,
for flesh of beast, I need each bite.
Succulent and long and sweet,
I love oh love to savor meat.

I eat and eat my meaty treasures,
but trade this joy for many pleasures.
My heart and lungs and knees of late,
speak to me of chronic aches.
My fatty belly shakes of lard;
stairs for climbing & breathing hard.
Porterhouse and fiery coals,
eloquence and happy souls,
end in the same aged fate... if we
are not watchful. That which we love, and grill, will be
that which entraps us... in fatigue, in a greasy fatty
human prison, in gravity's cell block, and finally
 
in a T-bone steak induced "chest clutching embrace."
 
"...and you?"
 
"I'll have mine medium rare, thank you."
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