a rhyming poem:
conceited meat
concedes defeat
whatever it sees it wants
to eat
to fry and mash and tear to shreds
or smash to smithereens instead
while pushing aside a subtle dread
that this tortured flesh is tasteless
a fitting end for the mute that trot
divide the spoils before they rot
ingest the flesh right on the spot
cant see no reason not to
(even if we didn't, we'd still want to)
- Oprah
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