Definitely not mince

I can only admire the poetic talent of Mr Eugenides. This is his wonderful valediction for Shambo:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy T-bone,
Silence the tambourines and with muffled drums
Bring out the burger buns, let the ketchup come.

Let cattle trucks circle moaning round the barn
Scribbling in the dirt the message, Shambo Is Dead,
Put mournful garlands round the white necks of the temple monks,
Let the government veterinarians wear black rubber gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My midweek sandwich and my Sunday lunch,
My stir-fry, my fillet, my stock, my chop;
I thought that leftovers would last for ever: I was wrong.

The barbeques are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the mustard and dismantle the grill;
Pour away the gravy and sweep up the wood.
For no meal now will ever be as good.

Great stuff!