Too bad we did not read back in December
the Christmas menu in that magazine
that’s called ENOUGH. It starts, as I remember,
with fresh-tomato soup, then aubergines
well roasted on a glowing charcoal ember,
then leeks and eggs in a curry-rice tureen.
Boiled pears with honey crown this festive meal
leaving no one hungry, and none whose senses reel,
and none in debt: just eighty cents a member
feeds all the clan the press-gangs can drag home.
Not having read it, we had men dismember
a bird, a cow-child and a garden gnome
and flog the bits in pieces (boxed in timber)
so we could boil them, baying leaves and foam;
then rack and barbecue them as a roast
we washed down with our conscience and a toast.