When William Blake surveyed thee
He asked ‘Little Lamb, who made thee?’
But when I marinade thee
I shall not care who made thee.
I shall have no thoughts to spare for
I want flavour, choosing therefore
Garlic and sweet rosemary.
O Lamb, all innocence and youth,
That gently on soft grass dost feed,
Thou never shalt, like us, grow older -
Which sounds poetic, but it’s truth -
Thou’lt not grow old because I need
To slow-roast thy shoulder.
Little Lamb, how I love thee,
With garlic and sweet rosemary.
If you have any thoughts on this travesty of a wonderful
poem by Blake, George Simmers
would be pleased to hear