The End Of The Protests

Escaping that sense
Of pure instant joy,

Unbalanced on a ladder,

Gary followed his placard
Into the mincing machine,

It took his hands
And arms first,

Then his head
And every thought
That he had.

All the onlookers agreed
They’d never felt
So disturbed and aggrieved,

As the conveyer belt
Conceived
It’s new shimmering meat.

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