Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

When the lid is lifted to reveal
a shank
of uncooked eel

and the ceremonial fork
slides under scales,
bringing sparks:

When a slight lull in the general chatter
finds us clutching glasses by the stem
and one man stutters

as another says "ahem",
spreading butter
on his little slab of ham:

When the spoon on the glass announces
we should listen up,
but the MC is taking his chances

with the hired trollop
and pounces
before he can be stopped:

When the guest of honour mumbles
that he should leave
so his footman shambles

to the closet to retrieve
the robe, the sandals
and the crown of leaves:

And when at last the congregation
gathers around the tilted podium
to inspect this elongation

of fish into worm,
and we shudder as one
and are dumb:

Let us then with mustaches groomed
to slippery perfection
distribute ourselves throughout the room

to minimize infection,
cast glances at the basket and resume
waiting for the twitch of resurrection.

Peter Norman should never be passed over.