Back To Work

By One By Ketchman 

Under the blistering sun of this hellish noon,
The Slaughter House will boom.

For there is a child, a mere forty weeks old
Alive and well in the womb.

THAT woman is not scared, she’s been here before,
At least three times she remembers.

Helpful nurses wear white, the floors smell like bleach,
and the gods masterfully dismember.

THEY cast the next great man into a cold steel pan
but the mangles fetus cries, he’s still alive.

Oddly never are they heard and the gods won’t say a word
THEN their worship is lost, so the baby dies.

The moral of this story, as profane as Democrats have become,
THAT woman was in the clinic by twelve and back to work by one.

This Poem Features In: