The night rings out a steady buzzing ballad

  There’s an absence of stars in the man adjoined sky

  Overall clad boys, deep in their slumber, obtain not a clue about the newfound life

  Beady black eyes, swollen in their wake

  Given not a conscience, hasn’t a choice to make

  All that is known is warmth and stillness, a quiet that will be inevitably disturbed during the rooster’s outcry

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  Picked up, like a rag doll, the impotent creature squeals

  The bearer of the runt glares spades , equally helpless, undoubtedly afraid

  Aware of the life that drops like flies

  One morn present, next left to expire

  “This one’s no good”, echos the freckled children

  Their guardians instilled this rotten vision

  Where prices lay high and wages dove low

  These spotless souls were their only provisions

  So, taken to the warehouse, unaware of what’s to come

  The little one wiggles, its heartbeat a steady drum

  Is it a fact of life or a copious violation?

  That the little ones lie, inactive in their creation?

  The thrum of sentience stills, silence grows

  Following the slaughter, all is placid, yet none is right

  Space slightly broader, the bearer is singled out tonight

  The floor frigid on its once warm, soft fleece

  Unknowingly awaiting its own release