Little by little
I become aware
of a basic rule in life:
in order to eat right
one needs to learn how to bite.
You may wish to hold on to the shell
if consuming, let’s say a mussel,
for later display as it is:
the true pearl holder
of your efforts and wits.
To the senstitive, I would tell
to call the blood oranges
by their commercial names,
just Moro Moro and Sanguinelli.

After all,
one can afford sup the juices
directly from the bones
of braised oxtails in Palo Alto,
Chinese-style,
when her shoes, belt and purse
are genuine crocodile.

And, by the way,
don’t despair,
if you happen to find a hair
in your roasted Cornish hen dish.
Israeli researchers reported
work on featherless chickens;
this definitely deserves a kaddish.

Good news for tongue rings users:
transplanting organs
from transgenic pigs into baboons
has been a hit so far;
I don’t see why pig tongue
cannot be pierced and ornate
with pearls and rings
before transplanting it into imps.
(No offense intended, some humans
already benefit from a baboon heart.)

You may respect tofu and vegans,
but I respect life; and life is an eatery
from the start.