Meat Me Halfway

This is a poem about vegetarians and their infuriating meat-free ways:

For tea, I’ve got some sausages frying,

but it’s no use, you’re only crying:

“They’re not for me, I only eat veg.”

It’s enough to tip me over the edge.

I’m dreaming about steak, the rareness of beef,

you think of Linda McCartney, your leader and chief,

cos long ago you made a vow,

to never eat chicken nor pig nor cow.

To the pub for tea, it’s a bit of a treat,

but we’ll have to go home, there’s nothing you’ll eat,

we’re sitting down, reading the menu,

so much choice, but nothing for you.

I fancy something greasy from the burger van,

you’ll only have chips, it’s all that you can.

When I get my burger, or a roll with pork,

that lentil looks nice you have on your fork.

To fill me up I need meat in a meal,

your’s isn’t food, it’s simply not real.

I offer you sirloin or chop, but there isn’t a chance,

you’d rather sit there with a bowl full of plants.

What’s that you’ve got with your Quorn?

it shouldn’t be on a plate, it’s part of the lawn.

You’ve got veggies and chips, but where’s all the meat?

There’s something missing, your meal’s incomplete.