by Nick Gisburne
A pan of black, incinerated meat
Will feed these greedy creatures for a week
A licence to collect what they secrete
Ensures my quaint concoctions are unique
The tonics mimic cardiac arrest
Without the fatal consequence, of course
Each customer expects the very best
I persecute my pets without remorse
With prods and poking through the prison hole
I scrape the salty syrup out with sticks
Their greasy glands add pungence to the bowl
Demanding tasteful tweaking of the mix
A serum too seductive to forget
Old Ebeneezer’s Filtered Fairy Sweat
