— from A Gallery of Ethopaths
I would find it most intriguin'
To have lunch with a crackpot vegan.
You know who I mean—those folk
Who start to palpitate and choke
If offered any normal food.
The vegans are a spaced-out brood
Who will not touch a single morsel
Of flesh or fowl or fish with dorsal
Fins, or any fins at all.
In fact, it's easy to appall
A vegan: offer him some veal.
He'll leap up with a piercing squeal
And scream that you're a moral monster.
The vegan looks with total conster-
Nation on a murdered vittle.
This food-obsessed neurotic twit’ll
Go into a frenzied rage
At seeing chickens in a cage,
And you'll fire up his juice
Just mentioning a force-fed goose.
There's a list of things verboten
That vegan dorks are fond of quotin'.
No eggs or butter, cream or milk,
No cheeses—nothing of that ilk;
No meat or poultry, fowl or fish,
No snails, no clams, or any dish
That once was actually alive--
Not even honey from a hive,
Since that would be unjust to bees.
They won't touch the stuff. So Jeez—
What the hell do these cranks eat?
Sprouts, dried beans, a tofu treat?
A nut-loaf cooked in bottled water?
Green salad, and a tasteless quarter
Of some damned organic melon?
A life-incarcerated felon
Eats better than a vegan dope.
At least in jail you have some hope
Of turkey, ham, and good roast beef.
Death-row prisoners get relief
When ordering their final dinner—
The warden grants the hapless sinner
Carte blanche for his last meal's menu,
For (they say) the man's next venue
Will be heaven, or hell's heat—
So give him what he wants to eat.
Vegans are denied this choice—
They all squawk, with a single voice,
That "Foodstuffs are a moral issue!"
They weep (while passing 'round a tissue)
About poor pigs and lambs and ducks,
Poor chickens with their plaintive clucks;
Poor shrimp and oysters, and poor scrod,
Poor tuna, mackerel, and poor cod;
Poor cows and partridges, poor quail,
Poor anything we might avail
Ourselves of as a nice entrée—
Well, here's what I have to say:
You vegans are moronic bores
Who'd rather live on leaves and spores
Than on the food that makes men great.
You'd much prefer a pallid plate.
Of dull, insipid, scraggly stuff
To food that makes you strong and tough.
Why don't you just get a life
And then pick up your fork and knife
And eat your supper like real men?
Consume red meat, and maybe then
Your bloodstream will infuse new vigor
To brains unused to logic's rigor.
A veal chop and some London broil
Will give your rusty wits some oil;
Beef Wellington and cordon bleu
Will vitalize you through and through;
Some ortolans in lemon sauce
Will make you healthy as a horse;
A slab of salmon from the grill
Will energize your mind and will.
Remember that your human days
Are brief, and meant for joyous praise
Of all that's given by the Lord,
And that includes a varied board.
You don't need stupid moralists
To put your knickers into twists
About their idiotic theories
And jargon-spouting cant that wearies—
-So cock your fingers, and give figs
To all those pious, prating prigs
Who whine about "immoral eating."
Give them the middle-finger greeting.
Just eat all you want, and more—
And leave daft theories at the door.