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.