The Ones On Our Plates

They who waste away

As gas begins to choke their tiny throats they gurgle

These misshapen creatures, so excluded from our moral circle

Their cries ignored, their shrieks unheard

Their face, debased, to taste the taste of bird

Their skin, beat in, their flesh stretched thin

To keep the deeply bloated organs in

Their eyes, so sad, so sharp perceptive still

The mind behind knows nothing of good will

In their mind, their tiny minds, of the world rests a version

Divorced from kindness, divorced from benevolence of any human person

On floors they lay, apart their legs are splayed

Afflicted by parasites, they slowly waste away

Crippled by themselves, their legs cannot maintain

Their weight as they collapse in endless pain

But this sad state was uncaused by hate or malice

We demanded pleasant taste on every plate and chalice

The cost, that which was lost, was not too much, most say

We only had to pay

The lives of the 78 billion that waste away