Myron MacKenzie’s Meat

His powerful forearms were painted in red,

And his great cleaver danced with precision,

Observed the young girl from the foot of her bed,

As she ogled the graceful incision.

Her beating heart quickened whenever a chicken,

He carved up and cleft into sections.

Besmitten, her breathy heaves thickened. So stricken

Was she, with these carnal affections.

Each night she would spy, by the light of the moon,

On the good butcher, Myron MacKenzie.

Wowed by a cow disemboweled one June,

Went her hands down her panties in frenzy.

As she watched him smear blood ‘cross his apron of white,

On her pillow she nibbled and quivered.

When he ground Polish sausage, she climaxed outright,

And then had a kielbasa delivered.

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