Is It Fresh?

Settle back gently,
And nourish your drink,
While I tell you a story,
Makes you stop, makes you think.

I feel I should warn you,
Right now from the start,
It's a little bit gory,
Yet straight from the heart.

There's this mate that I drink with,
A butcher by trade,
Has pride in his product,
He's honest, self made.

He's happy go lucky,
Content with his lot,
Except for each Thursday,
At two on the dot.

The fly in his ointment,
The bane of his life,
Is the sourpuss of all time,
Surviving on strife.

No room for a smile
On her face, bitter, drawn.
One look as she passes
Will frost up your lawn.

Insisting on cuts
That are tender and lean,
She'll pull and she'll smell them,
Disdainful and mean.

When nothing is left
To abuse him about,
She'll sneer, "Is it fresh?"
With a twist of her mouth.

Because it had gone
On too long, that's for sure,
I gave it some thought,
And came up with a cure.

I ran the scheme past him,
Each step of the way,
He loved it, would do it,
The very next day.

See, tomorrow was Thursday
I was there at the scene.
At two in the arvo,
When in walked the QUEEN.

I stood in the background,
Me mate played his part,
Right up to the point
Where he fixed the auld tart.

"Is it fresh?", she asked, sneering,
"Hold on then," says he,
And strode out the back,
Rubbing hands, filled with glee.

Returning at once
With a steer, live, in tow,
All cuts clearly marked
On its hide, in a row.

The meat she'd inspected,
He pointed it out,
Then headed the steer
Back inside, with a clout.

The next thing we heard
Was a shot, loud and clear,
Then a moan and a crash
That filled all with fear.

The customers faces
Showed horror and shock,
Then the roar of a chainsaw;
Sure, she shook in her frock.

I cannot describe
Her dry face, there and then,
She just clutched at the counter
Like a one legged hen.

Me mate reappeared
With a great slab of meat,
The blood dripping off him,
From his head to his feet.

"No fresher you'll find,"
Says he, with a grin,
The slab dropped before her,
Blood splattered her chin.

With a squeal and a yelp,
She shot straight out the door,
Went down the street, running,
Shocked right to her core.

He turned on the rest,
Picking up the raw flesh,
"Is there one more among you
Who'll ask, IS IT FRESH?".

In no time at all
It went right round the town,
How he fixed the auld shrew,
Without even a frown.

Our Thursday nights drinking
Is now full of cheer.
"Freshie," we call him,
Laughing into our beer.

See, I told you I'd seen it
With my very own eyes,
So, come back tomorrow,
And I'll tell you more lies.

Copyright; Peter Maloney
from his CD 'A Medley of Home Spun Poetry'