The price was fourpence for the running yard!
Wherefore I hate thee, butcher, and would pass
Untempted of thy viands. But, alas!
The spirit that essays in master flights
To sip the honey from Parnassus' heights,
That daily doth his Pegasus bestride
And keeps the War from spoiling on the side,
Fails to be fostered by the sensuous sprout
Or with horse carrots blow its waistcoat out.
So, though I loathe thee, butcher, I must buy