I don't want to know what my dinner has eaten
Be it milk-fed veal or corn-fed chicken.
I don't want to eat what they taste their food with.
So it's no tongue for me, it's theirs for the licking.
I don't want to know if they have nasty habits.
Or if they don't care for carrots or if they're at it like rabbits.
They may have been unselfish: no anger, no me-time.
Just as long as they are ready in time for my teatime.
I don't want to know if they walked on air
After a glass of champagne or an anniversaire.
As long as they weren't die-hard vegetarian.
Or walked with a lead. Or were born by Caesarean.
I don't wish to know if they lived for walkies
Or if chasing a ball was their favourite hobby.
It's just I know what I like, and given the choice
I'd prefer not to saute Greyfriar's Bobby.
I'll lose not a wink if I miss their birthday,
So if they have a name, please try to resist
Furnishing all that personal info.
I don't put turkeys on my Christmas card list.
I don't need to know their talents and facets
Whether leading hands or supporting players
My dinner's personality isn't one of its assets,
It's nothing to me to have so many layers.**
**(But if they've won awards, I don't wish to be hasty.
It might be a prize for being very tasty! )
The unique animal instincts granted to only a few
Won't affect me, they'll still go in the stew.
There's no reason to think this should be a democracy
Unless it improves the taste of hypocrisy.
I don't need to know the look on their faces
If they were terribly loving, if they had airs and graces.
If they wrote a great novel or started a charity
Do I have to remind you it's not about parity?
The barbequed starter is just for the few who'd
Better not smoke unless they've been skewered.
But as for the main course, it won't bother me
As long as they weren't on 'Last Chance to See'.
They may have been heroes
They may have been sinners
They may have been lovers
They may have been winners
But I'm hungry now.
And it's been a long day.
I don't want a relationship.
With my dinners.
