Pigs

Pigs are not dirty
It’s us that remain
Ignorant sadly
Our violent refrain
Is terminal madness
Our factory farm
Where our pork is raised up
Where we create so much harm

Filthy conditions
Shit everywhere
Dirty and dingy and barren
Aware they are of the pens
We make them to lie
With dead rats and maggots
An excrement pie

Wounded and battered
And bitten and sore
Corpses of family friends
It’s like a way
Of evil intentions
Watching each day
Our loved ones our sweet hearts
As they rot away

This might be your spare ribs
Of a fine leg you boast
Such suppuration
The stench of the roast
Supported by maggots
Feeding on death
An integral addition
To a long drawn out breath

Harshness and harassment
Loathsomeness too
So much irritation
Molestation rue
The state of our pens
Stinking and accursed
In Spain poor souls
Their life is the worst
That
It’s ever been