About the Poem
I've noticed the blank stares and drawn faces when I ride the train in the morning rush hour. The working class must work hard, every day, just to get by. Every morning, they pack themselves in to the train, just like a herd of cattle.
Death To The Cattle |
| by Michael Casamassa |
| Every morning, that damned ritual begins The walking dead, struggling for life Broken souls that pollute the cold, damp air Heading toward the tunnel, where there is no light Man behind the booth's in charge of the tickets Cheshire cat grin as he sees the line form There's a perverse pleasure in watching others suffer Swallowing one with feelings of joy and warmth The stench of rotting flesh fills the station Some vomit, others pass out, but no one cares Coughin' up internal organs isn't an uncommon sight It's truly quite a mess, but they stay there That familiar rumbling can only mean one thing The train has finally pulled in, to take them away Screeching to a halt on the bones of the weak Zombies stagger aboard to start their precious day Conductor slams the spiked doors shut, with a fury Most slip through, while others are torn to shreds His shriek is deafening as he starts the train Can't wait until tomorrow to do it all again |
Unfortunately, this author has failed to maintain a valid email address with us. If you know the author, please ask them to contact us with a current email address.
If you especially appreciated this author, we'll be happy to show you where you might find more of their poems