To be or not to be. A Sow

Farming is harming
It never is calming
A sow’s made to suffer
Her life is made tougher
She’s beaten she’ll be eaten
Cringing and crawling

She’s a mother no other
Soul has to feel
The mean spirited farmer
His haughtiness real
There is no state of wonder
Only her under
Transformed she is under
His spell and his
Thunder

She lies there such sadness
In the depths of true madness
His badness no redress
Irreverence borne
Out of indifference
Of rashness of tedium
Wickedness turpitude
And wretched scorn