Grandma’s Kitchen

 As grandma naps in her favourite chair
And Grandpa’s dead, so now I dare
No nervousness, resolve unflinching
I decide to checkout Grandma’s kitchen
As children despite we moaned and pled
“Not safe for children”, Grandma said
No longer a child, and so I can
I break the lock like a muscleman
Just one last check, but she still sleeps
My pulse slows down, in time it keeps
And now it’s time to step inside
I look around, glassy eyed
Then it hits, a funny smell
Identifying it’s hard to tell
I open up the pantry door
Was not prepared for all that gore
A head in a jar looking back at me
A face in pain, not one of glee
Large metal trays of human bits
An arm, a leg, a pair of tits
An assortment of fingers none are fish
Chopped up brains in a Pyrex dish
A Tupperware of human grits
But it’s from the stove the smell omits
In a pan, circled by bluebottle flies
Is human steak, stewed for human pies
And next to that a bubbling crock
Full of human bones making human stock
And in the oven, nice and hot
A human arse stuffed with apricot
And in my mind I hear her cackling
At an arse, covered in human crackling
I vomit in a pan like a windy baby
She’ll probably use that for making gravy
I consider the current bill of fare
Of human meat without any hair
I consider leaving, but let’s not be hasty
Grandma’s dinners were always so tasty
It’s not a time for moaning, not time for bitching
As I sit down at the table in Grandma’s kitchen
“Dinner is served.”