I hardly knew how to begin this poem
A young sausage in a butcher shop
A little lamb chop, light seasoning
All of it disembodied on a hook
(Of course they handled me like meat)
But now I'm old enough to get that look
When I show them my noble thing
Sure one day it will stop standing, right
Funny that a thousand fucks come to this
The cold store, the engine, the bumpy night
And it’ll happen to you, so pay attention.
© 2016 Rob Schackne
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