The sacred art of barbecuing

I place on the altar slabs of bloody red meat,
that I hunted down as the sun rose.
tearing apart with my teeth, the packet from Lidl.

I move the sacrifice into the sacred pattern,
determined by the casting of runes it lies on
the metal grill that bears the holy sigil, ASDA shopping basket.

I start to ignite the purifying flames repeating
the chant I learnt by heart from my father.
Sparking the magic fire stick, I chant, “light you bastard.”

Slowly the sacrifice blackens, but the gods are impatient,
I apply the blessed lighter fuel, then my hands and feet
move in the revered pattern, putting the fire on my trousers out.

Finally the holy smoke snakes heavenward
joining the black clouds that have started to gather.
I erect the consecrated brolly and stay put.

The skies reject my burnt offering and the rain falls
I anoint myself with the blessed four cans of Banks’ mild,
wondering if I had done a rain dance by accident.

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