Interview with a farmer of foie gras

What do you do for a living
I am a farmer of sorts
With geese and with ducks
I am reading
It’s foie gras
I have in my thoughts
Such beautiful birds
Of the water
Attested and genuine souls
For me they are beautiful creatures
Why exact severe controls

Firstly the birds don’t see water
Waders that stand in the dry
In stead of wild feeding
Force feedings your game
Tortured each one till they die
Large lumps of corn and fat
Forced down their throats
Hours until their throats get sore
Their livers grow and grow
And are forced into their lungs
Anatomically ruined and raw.

And still you continue force feeding
What does that do to your mind
Such mental inertia
You seem unconcerned
Inert and blasé
Haven’t you learned
These birds have feeling
your oversight
Your terrible thoughtlessness
You distracted sprite
Your disregard
For the pain that they feel
For their breathing control
It is very real

How can you do this
Such parochial crap
It’s super misguided
You are in your own trap
It’s thoroughly wicked
It’s iniquity
The birds they are dying
A catastrophe
Is happening inside of them
Adversity
Affliction and evil
You are sir guilty
Peering into your head space
What do I see
A vacuum of sorts
A dire insanity
An obnoxious unsoundness
A grossness so loud
Mangled and villainous
Yes the whole crowd

Receive ruination
Ravaged each one
Unable to ever
Feel the heat of the sun
Kept in this dark place
Threatened each day
To your wholesale depression
And corrosive display