Morning Dead

We make sport out of the dead
Art with our scalpel
Food in our skillet
The dead are our friends
Our food
Dead labour served up in pricetags
Dead bodies on our forks
But we look at them dead
And we shriek
We want them everywhere in our lives
Except in the morning news
Staring back at us
Eyes turned out
Flesh fallen out
Blood spattered
We like our dead to be pretty
Not like this
We don’t like our dead raw
Give us this day our daily dead

Lord don’t give them to us in the news.


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