Beef Speaks
Beef Speaks On this strangely hot autumn noon, I lay my pale being. 'Soon I hope this agony would rest.' Moo, the dry teats in pot-holes nest. The left broken horn doesn't hurt anymore. The scar on the neck- the bell I never wore. Masticating on my own saliva I lay on the dingy street. 'Moo, not a Tuesday!' Saffron on the nose is blinding my eyes. Graffiti on my right horn- gheraoed by flies. People with hands joined come and flee. I stare amazed- they let me be. Moo, I wish this futility to end, As I wait on that filthy market bend. Deepen the neck-scar! To the starving poor, feed me. The panacea for both's misery.