By George Bernard Shaw
We are the living graves of murdered beasts,
Slaughtered to satisfy our appetites.
We never pause to wonder at our feasts,
If animals, like men, can possibly have rights.
We pray on Sundays that we may have light,
To guide our footsteps on the path we tread.
We're sick of War, we do not want to fight--
The thought of it now fills our hearts with dread,
And yet - we gorge ourselves upon the dead.
Like carrion crows, we live and feed on meat,
Regardless of the suffering and pain
We cause by doing so, if thus we treat
Defenseless animals for sport or gain,
How can we hope in this world to attain
The PEACE we say we are so anxious for.
We pray for it, o'er hecatombs of slain,
To God, while outraging the moral law.
Thus cruelty begets its offspring - WAR.
Go on to Memorable
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