As a gift, for SausageFest 2026
Oh hallowed hose of holy ham!
This greatest achievement of
man!
Whe'er from the grill,
Whe'er from the pan,
Blessed is the noble scran.
Sisters! Sons!
In crowds we gather,
with sausaged buns
in sauce to slather.
Praise, praise! the pig
primordial,
HE is the source; his blood is
cordial.
Provider of the meaty paste,
true founder of this cult of
taste.
From flesh to flesh, let’s
state our mission:
to honour this glorious
tradition.
Older than the magna carta,
raise a glass,
and toast each martyr! (to the
chipolata).
From genesis, it becomes
cylindrical
(or other shapes, if you're
feeling whimsical).
Foetal-like, the salty mulch,
must take form before we can
indulge.
Venerable tube of spic-ed
flesh
older than Jesus, and yet
...forever fresh.
The length, the girth, width
and diameter,
true and measured, in each
parameter.
Then strung up, like Mussolini;
the banger, dog, the
frank, the weenie!
...But what's in a name? It's
not interestin'.
What is, is meat! ...encased
in intestine.
Long bag of chunks, so proud
and tubular,
triumphant as a mounted bugler.
Every link, concatenated.
We watch the process,
fascinated.
Our eyes they bulge, our
stomachs grizzle
as sacrosanct sausages sizzle.
For in the flames, the
charring phalluses
bequeath their juice, like
broken chalices.
Hunks of fat and marbled meat
soon to entreat, this spicy
treat.
A whiff of soot? ...they might
need flipping!
Serve them on a platter
dripping.
Each bead of fat, it
consecrates
the happy jaw that masticates.
For to chomp and chew, that is
our prayer.
The sound of hot gods are in
the air.
Then by the condiments we
muster.
For some, it's clear, it must
be mustard.
Others favour red or brown,
or BBQ, if you're from the
wrong side of town.
The smells are salvation,
the flavours delectable,
but send it back
if the eyelids are detectable!
Now heed your duty, hear my
call:
to tell the tale, tell one,
tell all.
Join the cult of kielbasa.
Cackle over kabanos.
Convert her to the frankfurter,
and in the process become...
A mortadella fella.
A slave to the salami.
A pupil of pepperoni.
A saveloy homeboy.
Become a black pudding protégé;
an andouille acolyte.
And finally,
cheer with aplomb, for the
saucisson!
Kings come and go,
Queens live and die,
but still the sausages we fry.
In humble homes,
on open grill,
in public parks,
we take our fill.
Through millennia, it has
endured.
May we all strive to be so
cured
and if we can't, and must
succumb,
to fates becoming of a bun:
wrinkled, stale, our memories
gone.
Bless still the sausage, for
it …lives on!
