by Nick Gisburne
The baby heads, in buckets, sterile, safe
Are certain they have never had a hug
They think their supple, silky skin would chafe
And that would sap the power of their drug
But stimulation, prior to the cut
Before their heads were hacked and hauled away
Has left a phantom feeling in the gut
And somehow they are missing it today
Their bodies, floating free in copper tanks
Are grown for parts and organs, fresh and clean
While captive brains, for huge emotion banks
Produce a happy harvest, dopamine
The saddest little faces are removed
With newborns is the purity improved
