They’ve often asked if I was restricted by a religion,
But “I just can’t eat” had always been my sermon.
I was fascinated by how they made it
And why their tongues galloped as they tasted.
So I took the bald man,
Cracked his skull,
And felt very bad about it.
Soon, fluid oozed out of it.
“AAAH,” I screamed as the man cried.
I stared at the hazard, unblinking and unthinking
And bashed it from the bottom, left and right,
Until he would escape his hides.
Plonk! on the floor, fire would reflect
Off their eyes as they devoured the whites,
While I struggled with the gruesome smell and sight
Of his melting runny insides.
When everything was somehow laid and ready,
When I finally managed to get myself steady,
I took out a knife and severed a part
When realization struck me long and hard:
That if I had let him live,
He would have found someone else to kill
to keep all the lungs breathing in his family.
It is not insensitivity – our killing spree,
Rather an order of nature or so it seems:
To garnish and decorate and exhibit then eat,
Trade a life with money unworthy.
Hence, my beautiful mind went on a trip,
Picturing possible food chains that might exist,
Until I imagined a bird eating me,
Followed by my stomach revolting tragically,
Seconded by an esophagus on a return ticket
(biologically, an unanticipated anti-peristalsis).
A pool of the remains of some of the finest species
Like birds, dinosaurs and the like, you see,
Was rapidly increasing in density
On a very expensive carpet of leopard skin,
Prized under my feet.
I guess eggs just weren’t born for me.