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It's What's for Dinner
by Michelle Krapf
Krzygurl83@aol.com

Hundreds of them, loaded into the small truck.
The conditions are too cold,
But who cares? They are inferior.
They squirm under the conditions,
Under our arrogance and our abuse of power.
Loud and squealing, they are noisy.
There is fright on their adorable little faces.
Crying, they are forced out of their last chance.
Chunks of flesh are ripped off, frozen to the truck.
They know where they are going.
They are not as stupid as we think.
They walk to their deaths,
As if they were going to the gas chamber on a Nazi concentration camp.
Trying to fight an instinctual battle of survival.
Who cares though?
Their feet still kicking and mouths still screaming,
They are hung up.
Their throats are slit.
Pours out the blood, the life; while it feels
The last thing it will feel in its life- PAIN.
But who cares?
Not us, it's just another holiday ham.
Pork: the other damn white meat.
We don't care how it got to the plate
As long as it's there.
Who cares about the pig?
It's just a trip to the slaughterhouse;
A journey to the end of life.
Dinner's ready.

 

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