They feed us worms <br />For breakfast <br />Big, fat squirming ones <br />That wiggle, and twist <br />Into tasteful shapes <br />Smothered in butter sauce <br />Made from the watery milk <br />From the breasts <br />Of long dead babes. <br />They think we don't know <br />That they grind up <br />Those no longer with us. <br />And shape them into <br />Lumpy hills of gristly fat. <br />I found a watch <br />In my soup that Old Man Greer <br />Wore the day he died. <br />It was still ticking even as I <br />Slurped it down me. <br /> <br />Then they pretend <br />That the ice-tea really <br />Doesn't hide a sweet <br />Almond taste of cyanide capsules <br />Under the slice of lemon <br />Craved from rotten fruit <br />That has laid molding <br />On a shelf for six months or so. <br /> <br />They think they fool us. <br /> but I know, <br /> I know.<br /><br />Charlotte Ballard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mealtime-discoveries/
