Frank, Burger, Chop And Steak Poem by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

Careful now, food foolery could keep us
from catching good Z’s, shock the likes
of Bo Peep, make countless sheep flock
to play Beat The Clock. Poppycock?

Fairy tale, you say? No way, for I’ve heard tell
of a spook-man in the moon who sees that cows fall
to raging disease: whole herds, at first fattened by,
then stricken with, the foul feed we make

of the sickened animals’ departed kin. If you don’t buy
that livestock — postmortem — retaliate posthaste
with a slew of deadly steaks, chops, and burgers,
then, frankly, you’re off your rocker!