The Belly Of The Beast

Lost in the belly of the beast, We look up and see all those curving arches, And we think then that we're in some majestic cathedral; But the next sloping corridor takes us down to the mortuary, The processing station, for what we are busy turning into. But we still ignore the smell, as we're too busy believing That for us, a great feast is being prepared- Just like children at christmas time Always believe the world is organized solely around them; Only to give them lots of gifts and candy. But we are the final meal being prepared; We are the last sacrifice To the pagan gods of old, Who we only thought had been retired by now Into dusty chests of antiquity; They are the ones will eat our body, drink our blood As their sacrament, of a new millenium, And it is our children will suffer the labor pangs Birthing their dreams; and not ours: Because we have never grown up enough To realize the fairy tales have not been true, And that they have never been about us at all.