You pet and preen and poke, at things in cages...things to you, tears to them...just meat you say, just lesser creatures, missing links...who have no souls...how convenient; for if they have a name...they have respect. We mustn't name them, children...one of them might blink, or cry out..."Save me". If they do...don't ever tell...you wouldn't want to spit them up...isn't that how you think, until the farmer comes for you?
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
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