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Sad pig in your pen all day,
totally dependent on the farmer for hay.
Everything in life’s is regimented,
when you sleep, / when you have sex,
life must be ‘the same’ for you, from one sad day to the next.
Poor sad pig;
been in that small pen since the day your were born,
is the only thing worth living for; ‘corn!?’
For if I was you, I too would be forlorn,
I’d be wishing I’d had never been born.
For they’ve castrated you,
and injected you with hormones,
making this little pen the only place you call home?
O please don’t moan.
Don’t worry sad pig, things will get much better when you’re grown.
For it is then that they will kill you.
O sad pig!
© Written by Dominic John Gill 23/Aug/2006 www.poetry.net.au firstname.lastname@example.org