SlaughterHouse Dreams

It's a poem. With rhymes and s**t.

Got a job in a slaughterhouse
on top of grinding gears
Strapping pigs to electric chairs
for bovine profiteers

Wrap hooves with conductor wire
Then throw the killing switch
I work for piss and vinegar
Make profits for the rich

Exploit the lands of Africa
Cow them with the lash
Our founding fathers ambitions
A slave holder's panache

Running guns across the desert
Rape the land for spoils
Waging war for profit margins
The price of diamond oil

Exploiting fears of terrorism
So hate can germinate
Turn the land of milk and honey
Into a fascist state

Ride the backs of common people
Until we're broken down
Profiteers eat all our children
while we all slowly drowned

Working in this slaughterhouse
listening to the screams
Watching entrails on the walls
turn into payday dreams

Stick electrodes into piggy
one last screaming squeal
Hit the switch electric twitch
then hang it on the wheel

Author's Note

Yes I know bovine is cattle.

Reviews

[Pryde Foltz]

Blown away. Brilliant piece.

[Baby Ricochet]

Thank you. I've changed the last Stanza like 15 times. I hope it's right now

[Pryde Foltz]

Yep, but there is a spacing typo.

[Baby Ricochet]

Ah. Got it. Thank you