It struck me that I should go and see
The infamous butcher of dreams.
He cut flock and cattle of souls
That never rattled and did as they were told
As he cut them and got paid his fee.

I’d heard tales of his onslaught
And how carefully he had wrought
The perfect tools to butcher and kill
Those that voiced their will
And weren’t overwrought.

In I saw people go
With their ideas being the goats
That were softened and tamed
To be cut by knives of shame
And skinned down their throats.

Out they came with moist pink flesh
Packed in black bags to stay fresh
As they left trails of oozing blood
And were put down with a thud
And were eaten up and blessed.