On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

I butterflied Australian rack of lamb with shallots, garlic, parsley, butter, wine (some in the pan, some for the palate). Although the livestock loved in nursery rhyme avoided clumps of mint, it served my family nonetheless. I am no PETA zealot (leather jacket, handbag, wallet, shoes) but wonder if the deeds we do pursue us in the afterlife. Does the fleecy creature have a tenderable claim? My lambent mind considers our short lease on life, the oven hot. Am I to blame? Who gave thee such a tender voice? asked Blake. Myself am Hell. I watch the mutton bake.