[Wrought Iron Hoof Heaver]
Ol’ Calculatorface swiveled in his arbitration
chair, forehead glistening with the rift in slaughter
logistics plain as the beads on his abacus:
got no hooves. How in bloody blazes’re they goinkta
waddle through them twisty halls on inta the slaughter
chamber? Little Whisp, bless him, wantsta just drag
the tazers an’ blades on through the messuva warehouse
an’ get the bloody oinkers where they’re just floppin
down an’ writhin’. Farfetched, yeh, fartetched. but what
else d’we got? Ain’t a whole slew’ve bester suggestions
cloggin’ up the thoughtubes.
frig. it’ll for sure fright
the tiny oinklets into coarse meatmuscled slabs of scabby
pusschops that Loblaw’ll scoff at.
Lost in thoughts of renting
out a conveyorbelt route, Calculatorface licked a dribble
trolling past his lips, felt his frustration chameleon
into a thoughtlocked sloth-haze. Jowels navigating gravity,
Calculatorface’s chin stumbled, abacus-bound, into
his alabaster-beaded stress-wrought daydream.