The time has come for a great battle
A fight where beasts turn into cattle.
Grown only to be slaughtered once more,
This is when the animals come stomping down their door.

Silver and gold plated armor glistens in the light,
We have precisely sharpened our claws overnight.
They know we are coming soon we'll be there,
Lock your doors, board your windows, and beware.

You have short time to say adieu
We will take no prisoners, unlike you.
Too many times we've been hunted and killed
We will cleanse our land of things you build

We'll storm the metropolis nowhere is secure,
Hospitals, hotels, houses, all destroyed for sure.
**** all the beasts, leave nothing alive
For they are the reason we do not thrive.

To defeat this immense threat,
We've prepared, don't you fret.
The wild animals have joined forces
Deers with bears, and lions with horses.

Together we will get our revenge
And our fallen allies we will avenge.
You can't stop us, you will try
Your heart from your chest, we will pry.

Hunted and killed, we are sick and tired,
Hearts ablaze and our minds are fired.
We line up on the battlefield one by one
To wipe out the beastly humans, the final battle has begun.

My heart
Is the colour of vermillion
It pumps blood
Red as the dead you have had
Butchered. Life
Is a big red
Puddle you happily jump in
To paint your soul whole
Free from the flag that drapes it.

Perhaps,
You could paint over your hatred
Sell it for parts for tin men hearts
Let it sink in the gutter
Of your imagination.

Yet the morals you have had emblazoned
Singe the lines of demarcation
Of your mind, of this nation
You have joyfully
Settled in.

And until birds, broken
Sing of freedom
And begin to heal
Your mind's abrasion
No peace or calm can live
Inside your soul's pavilion
When the flag of your heart
Burns vermillion.

Watch down the meadows here, of half a sight of
slaughter, and stick down these rows furled lazy
with the grass of fair days and stilted with colours
of May. And see no horns, rooted like the children's
graves, all turned a pallid colour. And bathe now in
the sun of stilted memories gone to wind.

For no heads turn as sirens on the clock here, filled with
madness of spinning rocks on the hour. Nor any men
dressed as men without eyes, should we skinned heads
have to suckle death from their guns. No: now these Trees
had hanged the other way, turning from sights of sorted
mass into waking graves, and to wash in perfumes hazy
as the night sky, and rotten as anaemic lungs.

But watch down the meadows now, through fields of huts
and silence‒ for the pasture of death looks nothing like
violence. Where, upon a ravaged place, a Lark lands as
an infant would, and tenderly drifts, faint into innocent
shawls, damp with poison mud. But for what cause do
these blind bullet heads sink lower than flesh, and when
the Sun next rises, all shall be put to rest.

Put a friendly face on death and make him my
friend. Bring diseases curled as gifts, as water on
dry tongues, and on health-stain tort in whisked
hues that all sing sad songs of early deaths. Bring
me daily, hot food on warm plates, stone cold and
grotesque. Bring it all briskly to the coffin I call
my bed, and there I'll watch myself die.

And have the Priest fit on the site of my birth,
for I'll be born a dead boy anyway. Stuck with
lab venom; your cures at the end of sticks
plunged quietly into my skin. All stilted vats
of Death in good taste– jet blindness; splash
misery for Mothers– Mock execution on mass
for nameless rats who'd been held as babies.

But now I'm old, old as a child can be without death,
how can I breath in such vile brews as the air?
Downtrodden clouds roiled by atrocity; roiled and
molested white carapace that falls day by day, each
onto innocent lungs-aged madly. But what tranquil
traumas I have witnessed– on soft eyes and soft skin–
on groves I'd though real– and how maybe if I never
spend my time here, I can never waste it, for we'll
all have drank from the tass before too long.