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.
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