Wed, 12/25/2013 - 16:57 -- Moshobo


Your genetically modified existence
Can barely stand upright.
Your beak is absent,
Your feathers are fake,
Your wings don't work.
You are not a life,
But a technological epiphany,
Engineered by greedy businessmen.
They shove you into a suffocating box,
Along with a million others.
Your screeches echo across the world,
But you're just a part of the food chain.
You aren't a creation of life,
But an object invested for profit.
You can't roam freely like you used to,
You aren't worthy enough for that.
You frenzy in the freezer,
Awaiting your fate.
Dipped in grease,
Again you wait.
Now you're fried on a platter,
Bustling the buffet with your legs. 
"I'm still alive!" you call out,
But Colonel Sanders wants his sales.
Scandals uncover,
Headlines accuse.
PETA is fighting for you,
Picketing as if their lives depended on it.
But democracy is quick to keep them quiet.
Oh, how guilty I feel,
That someone could treat you this way.
But oh, how delicious you look.
Side my side with buttery potatoes,
Buttermilk biscuits and green beans--
A traditional American meal.
I lean in, fork in hand, ready for a bite.
But my food starts squirming, squealing,
"I am not a nugget!" it retaliates.
I set my silverware down,
Tears fogging my eyes,
And I vow never again to touch a corrupted piece of life.


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