An epic sausage poem hath been writ

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!