Fruit on a tree,
You harvest,
Corn in the field,
Grapes on the vine,
And fruit for many other dish,
But now we also harvest fish,
Or seals,
Or anything that squeals,
A fine distinction would I make,
When someone else’s life you take,
Its murder,
No matter how you slice it,
Or use verbal tricks to fit,
Killing fields are red with blood,
Instead of sod, its ice you got,
Little creatures barely born,
From their mothers breasts are torn,
Clubbed to death, with a sealing club,
Will ever some these monsters stop?
Red is all around,
Red tunics too, abound,
To keep away the spies,
Stop them telling lies,
Their masters though
They lay low, don’t tell the truth,
Use subterfuge and ruse,
To keep us ignorant and at bay,
They know just what to say,
The common folk in uproar be,
If this gruesome slaughter they would see,
Harvesting is such a classy word,
Me thinks, like the Nazis, killing, called it sport.
©28/02/2009
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Georg