The Grind

The sea is red

the whales are dead

and a little boy stands there

an islander

what does he think

how can he think

or care

joyful pods of pilot whales

the ocean was their soul

the Faroe Islands grind was on

that how they lost control

butchered complete families

torn to shreds, their pain

their blood soaked flesh

so obvious

to the locals half insane

I say half these marauders

plundering away

slicing chunks off living souls

how is this okay?

how is this acceptable

in this day and age

this egregious terror

this larceny, this rage

how can sentient humans

ever stoop so low

to slaughter tiny babies

that never now will grow

and do it front of their parents

its a fearsome fright

an emotional disaster

that turns a day to night
 

thrashing in the salty sea

blood spurting to the sky

exposing all their organs

still beating as they die

mothers seeing children

slaughtered torn apart

mothers seeing fathers

and uncle’s as they part

this world all torn a’sunder

by the brutality of man

who doesn’t need to do this

whose souls gone down the pan

whose evil and whose culture

describes the suffering they

eke out on the innocent

at a  price too high to pay

The Faroe Islands sicken me

directly to my core

they are a boorish bunch of slobs

feasting on the gore

each one tearing cutting slashing

violence  dark and depraved

the sea is red

the whales are dead

not one of them was saved

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