Roasted pig they call it Pork

We show them relevance
Truthfulness
A pig in blood it lies
They go to the supermarket
They do not see the flies the maggots
And perhaps the rats
They hear no dying squeals
It’s all dressed up in plastic trays
And to them it just appeals

They possibly do not wash it
Just put it in a tin
Sprinkle herbs and put it in an oven
To begin
With roasting the dead creature
Taking in its smell
Possible with some apple sauce
These monsters straight from Hell

Filling their guts with dead flesh
And dead maggots too
Because they see no wriggling
Their eyes they never drew
Conclusions of death and the bloodied state
And the awful squeals
It now sits in their stinking gut
And we know how that feels.