Ode to Being.

Arise good folk that fortune passed
  who toil on now in gravid fields
to reap the grain and end the fast
  with course, fine grist milled so it yields
a gift of golden rising bread,
  laid on the Master's table spread.

Their bellies called like howling hounds
  baying for hunting at the strain.
Their swinging blades drown out the sounds
  their lives made swirling down the drain.
It all felt like a crying shame,
  those hounds were broke from wild to tame.

They shuffled onwards down that road
  towards their almost certain fate
that waited like a squatting toad
  to raise its bulk, obliterate.
They're the muscle that turns the wheels
  to make the Master's daily meals.

Put down them folk to filthy trough
  to scoff on Dog's rejected waste.
They'll dry the Inn of beer they quaff
  to swill away the aftertaste.
These folk should always know their grade
  was serving till their lives decayed.