Ode on Tasteless Little Sausages and Fat, Fat Cows

The meat grinder of time
grinds on, grinds you down
into little sausages.

Little tasteless sausages,
terrified sausages, afraid to speak,
afraid to think or act.

You've been seasoned white
with fear, worry, and anger;
the seasonings of modern experience.

Once you marched along,
such tender, sweet pieces of meat,
and so pure and unique.

Now you're tainted by fenced-in cows
who will only eat the green grass of home,
and tell you you're no longer safe in your own backyard.

And that meat grinder blends you
all together into that same batch
of tasteless, quivering sausage.