Of heated moment, and biting lead,
Dust let settle, and one lay dead,
Now with the town we’ll openly cry,
With all of those who knew the guy.

So why can we feel no remorse,
For those slaughtered as our fuel source?
Held ball and chain by wooden posts,
'Til butchered down to flanks,
And roasts.

Led to an unknowing demise,
In a deathly house of monstrous size,
Yet idly we stand,
And turn away,
As the sun sets on their numbered days.

Heartlessly we wring their necks,
And blood does sign our butchers’ checks,
As cleavers carve their lifeless corpse,
And we claim profits with no remorse.

Now openly we boast our work,
On grocery shelves of slaughtered pork,
And blindly we wet our hands,
In the stagnant blood of our demands.

Why am I viewed differently,
For these wretched truths which I can see?
How can you just sit, quiet and still?
Do or don’t you condone each kill?