It Ends, Of Course
It ends, of course, in the slaughterhouse.
Cows, horses, chickens, pigs, human
Beings too, share the same fate.
We have little choice in the matter.
Under cover of dark, at the gate,
Two men, one on each side, lock arms
With you, and walk you to the outskirts
Of town. They have their charms,
So that you almost come to believe
That it’s you who’s in control,
But that’s only to deceive
The fool in you. Whether you turn left
Or right you always arrive
At the same place. Gloomy, bereft
Of hope, the earth is clogged
With the dead, who come in all
Shapes and sizes. In a sort of bog
You lie down, your head
Comfortably against a belly, or a thigh.
The men have covered their faces. Dead
Or alive, it’s all the same. Is there anything
You want to say, they ask, with a smile.
You try to think of something.
Too late! One of them draws a long, thin
Knife from his back pocket. Not
Waiting, he plunges it in.
It’s quickly over, and the only sound
That we hear is a soft sigh
From your lips, which grow round
And fat like a tumor.