Sacred Surgical Strikes

by Michael Murry


Quietly one cannot go
About an amputation.
Neatly neither can blood flow,
Nor sap and sawdust ever grow
Where limbs fly off and butchers crow:
In slaughter, their salvation.

In abattoir and arbor, they
Perform the surgeon's mauling.
The animals and plants they slay
Efficiently, both night and day,
Dismembering what doesn’t pay
To live — a breed appalling.

But doctors of divinity
Have sworn in sacred theses
That what man wishes, man can do:
The rape of many by the few;
The just deserts, the proper due
Of GAWD’s own chosen species.


Copyright © 2014 by Michael Murry
The Misfortune Teller

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