What to say

When they ask why you don’t eat meat

tell a conspiracy tale about little

boy cows being snatched from their mothers

so we can enjoy veal with our milk.

Describe the smell of the rain-wet wool

on your childhood pet lamb, the thrill

of its strong thrusts to latch on the bottle

with a frenzy of joy in its tail.

Mention bovine flatulence if you must,

their pee and their poo in our waterways

as we sweat under methane duvets

and all these once-in-a-century events.

You may admit ambivalence to silly old chooks

whose eggs are plucked with barely a blink

but the chemical plumping of tight-caged chicks

is as gross as Guantanamo Bay.

No need to describe the bright eye of the fish

flapping in the bottom of your bucket

for creatures of the sea are cold blooded

and we don’t warm to them the same.

The scream of the pig with a knife at its throat

is best avoided in table conversation,

instead segue to neatly packaged processed

pork, pink with nitrites and preservatives

and acknowledge statins that counter animal fats

so to appear reasonable and pragmatic

and not be mistaken for a zealot

for you still love your rainbow of cheeses.