by Nick Gisburne
Who’ll buy my heads, a dozen, freshly killed?
No tame domestics, these were slaughtered wild.
Come forward. Bring your baskets to be filled.
In every half a handful there’s a child.
I slit and slice and drain them till they’re dry.
Buy now. Buy more. Tomorrow they’ll be sold.
A steal, the best cadavers you can buy,
And these are worth the weight of eight, in gold.
Appreciate the quality, the meat.
Where else could you afford a finer head?
I dare you. Try a couple, for a treat,
Or take a dozen, juicy, newly bled.
And if you find a roaming human herd,
Remember, I’m a butcher. Say the word.
