We are midwifes to death
Acting like little gods
Changing what is right and beautiful into abominations
How can the hand that strokes the mane and scratch the chin
Deliver the blow
Little snots press into holes begrudgingly poked in sheet metal prisons
Trying to escape the scent of terror
They feel the warmth of the sun they’ll never lie in
Legs that ache to bound across verdant fields
Will be force to wobble one short distance
Pleading eyes tell us the butcher’s knife is not the cruelest cut
Plates are full
Is there enough drink to wash it all down?