A field of tiny lambs in Spring
Can lift our hearts and make us smile.
Their baas persuade us everything
Is good, and living life worthwhile.
Alas, they’re only born to die.
(I’m sorry, but you know they are!)
Their raison d’être’s to supply
The slicing, dicing abattoir.
Each bleating, fluffy little love
Is marked for chops or rogan josh,
And one day men will come to shove
Them into rooms with floors awash
In blood and guts, and then reveal
Their bolt guns, each of which contains
A rod of cold and brutal steel
For pulverising ovine brains.
Last edited by Rob Stuart; 03-04-2014 at 04:19 AM.
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