by Nick Gisburne
The slurry from the district meat machine
Is tainted with unsanitary tangs,
But Eva is too weak to try to clean
The scraps unfit for scavengers, or gangs.
Devoid of any dignity, she sits,
Oblivious to what she has become.
The dangers in these urban protein pits
Are nothing to a mind already numb.
The poisons twist their tendrils through a heart
Resigned to beat, but never free to feel.
A siren sounds. The pumping, soon, will start,
To spill the filthy horror of a meal.
However rich, the city will not pay
For those, like swill, or shit, it throws away.
