Before the dawn, the fire is lit,  
Steel meets stone as blades are bit.  
Apron tied and sleeves rolled high,  
Another day to cleave and ply.  

The weight of flesh, the scent of brine,  
The sawdust laid in careful line.  
A hanging carcass, cold and bare,  
A practiced hand, a butcher’s care.  

The cleaver falls, both sharp and sure,  
A trade of grit, of blood and cure.  
Fat and marrow, bone and hide,  
Nothing wasted, none denied.  

The market hums with rattling carts,  
A mother counts her coin and starts  
"A pound of beef, the finest cut."  
He nods and trims with steady gut.  

The children press against the glass,  
Wide-eyed, they watch the minutes pass.  
The butcher grins, his hands now clean,  
And gifts a scrap, both rich and lean.  

Through summer’s sweat and winter’s bite,  
He works from dawn to dimming light.  
A humble craft, both harsh and pure,  
A butcher’s life, both toil and lore.