The Ones On Our Plates
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