Parts of Me

The Slaughterhouse

Blood spills down onto the floor of the slaughterhouse.

Animals fear going there: geese, goats and mouse.

The worker is indifferent to the blood staining her blouse.

Her dull eyes look down, nothing does rouse.

The cries of the animals go unheard.

Being oblivious is greatly preferred.

Not knowing anything is much revered.

Few people know: the hippies, the nerds.

The leaders are happy, they don’t need to know

Where the money comes from, which at them is thrown.

Bothering and ethics would cause an unnecessary row;

They ignore the protesters, running to and fro.

Out of knowledge and convenience, the latter comes first,

Despite the fact that soon, from bounds will burst,

The fear and anger and sadness immersed.

Only then will the lips of the worker purse.

Guts drip down from the worker’s fingers.

The smell of blood in her nose always lingers.

At home, she tries to clean her fingers.

But the memories of the slaughterhouse will always linger.

It seems more vivid than usual today.

It’s turning into a sunny bright May,

But inside it is not this way.

She finds herself beginning to pray.

She’s never really noticed it:

The blood, the guts, the death, the shit.

But now it’s like a candle’s been lit

And she sees the grime and grit.

Maybe one day the world will rouse,

And see the deaths of pigs, chooks and cows

They’ll see the blank worker in her blood-stained blouse;

They’ll see the true horror of the slaughterhouse.