The Guilty Butcher…
While looking at this breast that used to belong to a hen,
I find with ease a new subject for me to pen,
Should I be judged on who I am or on what I do?
Or to vegetarians who hate me should I say fuck you?
No, cos despite my aggressive streak I am a pacifist,
And treating living things fairly is high on my priorities list.
I think im no different to people who work on the tills,
Or others who work for petrol companies which fill the ocean with oil spills
The fish and the meat is dead before it comes to me,
Of course id rather see a duck alive and resting beneath a tree.
I’ve been a fish man for a while and maybe im now desensitised
What I sell used to be living; this is what my x-lady always emphasized.
I do sometimes question why it is that I cut up dead chicken,
But I ignore this ethical dilemma else I become stricken,
With the notion that I am a vital cog in the chain,
Of the meat trade machine responsible for the slaughterhouse pain.
I don’t rejoice in the guts and all the blood,
And people who are cruel to animals I wanna rub their faces in the mud,
But if this is so, then how can I explain my position?
If I love animals, surely I would look at this job with constant derision.
Well I suppose I keep the moral issues in the cup from which it sometimes spills,
Cos pathetically perhaps, I do this cos it pays the bills.
(June 2003)
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