Butcher's Arms - local Inn.

Chuckle near the knuckle - come on in.

Lean back chicken - rest your rump.

Don't chop chairs - don't play the chump.

The birds in here - by rule of thumb

look just like Biffa Bacon's mum:

belly pork dripping from the silverside;

breast spilling up from the topside;

hog's pud legs and streaky hair;

never ever gonna get boned.

The old man's glaring jaundice eye,

an egg-yolk framed by Gala Pie.

With fingers like bludgeoned burnt bangers

and his pork scratching toes in their hangars.

Parson's nose and liver spots:

absolutely, totally stuffed.

Turkeys at the bar on the lamb from the pigs:

baste post haste in their government digs.

Earning poultry sustenance from hand-out meat;

giblet jobs in flogging drugs on suet streets.

Much at steak from porcine roast:

dying, trying not to get sliced.

Faggots frowned upon inside the Butcher's Arms:

mince is disallowed - it comes from dodgy farms;

too close to the bone and too far up the rack;

tenderloin and rump gets up the punters' backs.

Mutton is mutton - lamb is lamb.

Fillet someplace else young man.

Butcher's Arms - local Inn.

Chuckle near the knuckle - come on in.

Lean back chicken - rest your rump.

Don't chop chairs - don't play the chump.