blood is blood and blood is rain
as ash that billows out
the smokestack towers of the
slaughterhouse
upon the mighty Mississippi
and along her filmy shores
the powder dusts the fish that line
mother earth's clogged pores
the stench you get used to,
yeah the stink of charring bone
but half-sights that escape it
still manage to hit home
cause the ventilated trucks
make their pilgrimage
others bring home the bacon
(carting off the dead)
and the waiting cattle low
eyes roll back, show white
the veal calves underfoot
tucked from easy sight
prodded up the ramp they go
and then onto the hooks
just before, they shut the doors
(but no one cares to look)
we heard about the plant once
when that worker sued
seems the machine took off an arm
(forget the hocks accrued)
identical, fluids mingled
that bony pointed day
for blood is blood is rain as ash
(a slaughterhouse's way)
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