Everyone is a secret-sadist-butcher;
craving for little carvings of baby in a platter.
(If it's below three, I don't consider it murder.)
Mothers are natural baby carvers,
trained from teen years to pierce flesh with a skewer,
Everyone is a secret-sadist-butcher.
Baby's meat when grilled is always tender,
it drips with juice to keep separate in a saucer.
(If it's below three, I don't consider it murder.)
The only way to check if it's dead is with an iron poker,
to gouge soup eyes and serve in a dish made of pewter.
Everyone is a secret-sadist butcher.
I checked for bones under her bed of flowers,
to see if I had there a family of little brothers.
(If it's below three, I don't consider it murder.)
Large families go poor until they make it better,
but to cook a few babies shouldn't be quite a disaster.
Everyone's a secret-sadist-butcher.
(If it's below three, I don't consider it murder.)
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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6 comments:
You still are one of the best poets I have ever met.
Miss you Kristel!
~Mikes
Dark and freaky. But really really great!
I'd love to read more stuff form you.
My .02
Greg
Great entry.
Have you read "A Modest Proposal" by Jonathan Swift? He has a similar idea, albeit for Irish Catholics. :)
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