He thinks worrying about refrigeration
Don't want it all going to waste
As the gutters fill with blood
Doing what his father did and more
Knife in hand to cut the brisket
Hands bone dry from all the washing
So as now his wife wont touch him
She so averse to the smell of sinews
How the hair clings to his fingers
Still slice, dice and wrap it in paper
How he came by it doesn't really matter
There's meat on every home table
And the streets are better cleaner
He often feels a pang of guilt
About being judge juror executioner
But with the bellies of the townsfolk
Full of quality free range red meat
He knows what he is doing is acceptable
© shaun patrick green 2012
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