by Nick Gisburne
The butcher breaks a ration pack of meat
To satisfy a thousand starving souls,
But other sources, smuggled from the street,
Are found to feed the tower he controls.
No animals survived the Great Malaise;
The labs alone supply his block with beef,
But, in these tense, intolerable times,
The truth cannot compete with blind belief.
With backdoor-bartered sacks of something raw,
Irregular but copious supplies,
The butcher’s grinder fattens every floor.
They live, but somewhere, somehow, someone dies.
They know. They must, but none complain or care.
The butcher feeds them all, with meat to spare.
