Little lamb
Who made thee?
Shrink-wrapped in polystyrene casket.
Baa!
Count yourself
Lucky.
You saw two full summers
Before market.
Your chewy collagen may yet
Rot in the teeth of some
Carnivore's
gob.

Your Cumbrian cousins
Never made it
To table.
Ovicidal,
Bovicidal
Culling by postcode.
MPs bray as the beasts lay muted,
Grim smoking pyres besmirching the once
Rural idylls.
Gone long before this particular hiccup
Put the final nail in this
Farmer's coffin.

Two smoking barrels,
A brain-spattered privy.
Another farming generation
Brought to a
Bloody
Full
Stop.

Culling.
Such a politician's word.
A disingenuous,
Dioxin-laden
Smoke
screen.
For culling say
Killing.
No.
For killing say
Slaughter.