Slaughterhouse blues

The slaughterhouse produces buckets
Of tragedy and woe
Tears of yesteryears
And the eternal flow
When the soul cries
There are no tears
A statement I once read
No weeping and no wailing
Not a tear is shed

In reality the tragedy
Is heartfelt and its sad
The Slaughter men they never cry
They just go fucking mad
Angry they are misfits many of them poor
On such dreadful salaries
Of this I am pretty sure

To do a job like this
Is not encouraging
Its frightful seeing those
Who want to be
left to life
But forced to die
And not of their making
How cab a sleeping slaughter man be free

In a clean bed with his natural women
Arms around his bloodied shoulders
She
Kisses his dry lips
Knowing he kills animals every day
And when he is not with her
Where he will be

Under clouds of blood that splash down
From the gantry
Watching and hearing the females
Bleed out where
She was chained upon a rusty pulley
And led into the darkness of despair

When the soul cries there are no tears
Perhaps not
But thats because the human fails to see
He himself he doesn’t cry why should he
He is psychopath on that rely
The lamentations I can hear now nightly
Cannot be heard by the many who
Cook and eat the remnants of the animals
As so many people really do

All sorts of parts the lungs and of course the liver
The heart the bladder all of it some eat
Tongue who tastes it, the pig whose being eaten
Or the man who eats the tongue sat in the street
The inner tears of woe are seen by fewer
For only the slaughter men are in the frame
And they are blundering arses among the working classes
Who probably eat the offal just the same