Chops

Sitting on a rickety wooden bench by the cam,
I hear the rusted nails squeak under my weight.
The guttural cry of the bellowing ram,
rang in the air. The time was half past eight.

Porcelain knives that come in cellophane bags,
cut deep into the flesh, but shatter when dropped.
The edgy ram was bundled in a tattered rag,
and brought to the altar of science- a feast was called.

The merry din of the joyful crowd,
masked the palates craving for that tender loin.
As the ram moved into the plate, some spoke aloud,
of the art of getting the right cut of the shanks.
It was a congregation of kind hearted people afterall.