by Nick Gisburne
My fellow chefs are murderers. Not me.
I always keep the heat, the meat, alive.
For blood to flow so freely, as you see,
I cage a herd of humans, four or five.
Their misery intensifies the taste.
I like a little terror on the tongue.
The moment when a soul is pressed to paste,
For that, a blissful ballad should be sung.
The scum who serve their viscera on ice
Deserve to host a banquet bleak and bare.
I never maim the same survivor twice.
Depravity so delicate is rare.
Allow me to suggest a special treat:
A scream in seven courses. Strange, but sweet.
