Pizzle

Lyrics

I stand at the foot of the high oak board
To render the tally of the grazing herd.
The winter is bitter, the fires are low,
The hounds are shivering in the snow.
The Bishop of Ely is pouring his wine,
And asks for the cut from the roughest chine.
The jaw locks hard on a dangerous noun,
So I drag the syllable safely down.

Call it the pizzle, and let it pass,
A thing of the slaughter, a thing of the grass.
If it belongs to the butcher’s block,
We need not watch the chapel clock.
An honest length for a heavy trade,
Where neither the ghost nor the guilt is made.

The lady inquires what the hide will yield.
I say it is stout enough for the field.
Three groats a yard at the Smithfield gate,
It dries in the sun and it holds its weight.
It serves for a whip or a heavy cord,
And strikes all the harder the longer the yard.
She traces the rim of her silver cup,
And keeps her velvet collar up.
She knows what the market is bringing in,
But livestock is never a mortal sin.

So call it the pizzle, and let it pass,
A thing of the slaughter, a thing of the grass.
If it belongs to the butcher’s block,
We need not watch the chapel clock.
An honest length for a heavy trade,
Where neither the ghost nor the guilt is made.

We wrap the man in the skin of the beast
So we may sit at a hallowed feast.
As long as I borrow from the ox and the steer,
The holy man drinks, and the conscience is clear.
The truth is a peril we cannot afford,
We are only discussing the meat with the lord.

It is only leather and cattle and bone.
The bishop has finished his supper and gone.
The market is settled.
The shadows are deep.
And the animal wakes when the holy men sleep.