What if I were to tell you
That mutton is a lie.
So are beef, pork and veal.
There are no such things
In the real world.
So, when I ask you what's for dinner,
Look me in the eye
And tell me we're eating a goat,
A cow, pig or calf
Who watched
Her family being murdered
And spent her last moments
Blinking deep red blood
Out of her eyes,
Gushing out from a slit throat
As she dangled up-side down
By a foot.
I wonder,
Does it hurt?
She writhed.
She struggled,
She bled, she screamed.
And nobody wanted to hear.
Nobody wanted to see.
If only slaughter houses
Were made of glass,
Maybe I'd have an answer
To the question
That keeps echoing in me:
Does it hurt?
Her feet never felt the soft touch
Of the earth beneath,
Her body had never been caressed
By a loving hand,
Her spirit had never soared
With the winds.
She had never been home.
Does it hurt?
She never knew what its like
To sit like this with family,
Surrounded by people you love.
Did she ever feel loved?
I always wonder.
And here we make a feast.
Does it hurt?
When I ask you what's for dinner,
Look me in the eye
And tell me
We've murdered our sister
For our meal tonight.
If we can do it,
Then I'm sure we can say it.
It can't possibly hurt.