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Blood soaked white fur, pressed into the cage;
a twitching, pink nose conceals overwhelming rage.
Number 642 in a laboratory of lies.
They want us for our tear ducts, our docile, pink eyes.
Restrained in the stocks, so that I cannot move.
All for these tests, but what do they prove?
Caustic chemicals, drizzled into our eyes;
they watched transfixed, enthralled as we fried.
A torturous existence, filled only with dread:
this is the life for which I was bred.
My collective unconscious, shows me carrots and leaves.
They stole this from us - they are the thieves.
I also glimpse meadows, where bunnies run free;
utopian pastures, I will never see.
Perhaps in the night, in the still and the calm,
we can escape and return to the farm.
A place where the victims’ wounds can be nursed;
and with time, come to terms with the heartache and hurts.
It will only be then, that our fear can abate,
as they tell the press, It was all a mistake.
Fried bunny rabbits, dead on the floor:
a sight even a vivisector would have to abhor.
’Till then we're condemned, to a lifetime of pain.
For them our anguish equals profits and gain.
On supermarket shelves, the shampoos that you buy,
deceptively boasting “baby, don’t cry.”
I long for the warren, tempting me from the sky,
I’ll be released from the torment on the day that I die.

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