I hit upon a theory one warm night in mid-June,

just a simple thought but one

that nagged at me all through the next day,

one that I wish I could have had years ago

and saved me from a lot of bother

as I chased after women

when I was younger.

 

The theory, I must impart this to my boys,

unless they grow up as men to whom the carrot,

the sprout and the Quorn  appeal,

is that if when round the women’s house

and your stomach starts to rumble,

as it surely must when lust and love get in the

way of good dance,

and she looks at you with hints

of panic in lovelorn eyes, the baby blues you adore so much

now darting about

with slight terrified persuasion and hope

creeping in

and suggests in what she hopes is a smooth and delicate voice,

that could she make a nice salad,

run,

run,

as fast as your legs may carry you,

for she will never offer raw or blue steak at home.

 

As a theory it’s plain to see,

it could of course be a load of old tosh

but I think back at all the women

I have loved,

and with the few I was able to dance with,

those that offered a piece of cow

liked me more than those who thought

the act of eating a poisonous tomato

would appeal.

 

How can a salad be nice?

I have asked myself,

the bed of lettuce, the obtuse Ploughman’s lunch

filled with no meat but a gargantuan amount

of shredded cress placed neatly beside

a wedge of plastic processed cheese…

 

…it just reminds me of Wednesdays

at junior school in which salad was king of the plate

for four long terrifying years,

followed by overdone shoe leather liver

when I got home,

Wednesday’s were not fun, salad and liver,

It’s no wonder that on Thursday’s I would

go up for seconds.

Give me the taste of a blue,

just seared, horns and bell removed

and cleanest bottom, steak any day

and save me from the panic stored offer

of a nice salad

prepared by someone who doesn’t know me at all.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015