Italian Sausage
J
James McLain
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The ice house in the middle hangs buchered pork and beef.
Smaller packages inter by the back door.
Different shapes what of them lays inside.
Cranking the grinder I watch from the back
as arms and legs are fed into the red bloody mouth.
The heads are sawn up into more manageable pieces.
They cant tell where this sausage has come from.
The customers want all we can give them at half off.
All the bullets fall into a bucket on the floor.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş