Monday, 24 November 2014

Mad Cow Disease

On the brink, we eat, we sink,
The billion burst their seams.
A billion more barely think
Of steak and chips but dream.

The sounds of chomping mouths surround
The West, now East some too.
From East to West the clouds caress
And choke the lands of food.

The cargo sails without the wind,
The wind carries poisoned spit.
The acid burns, the trees are lit,
The soya sprawls, the cows roam through.

No room for crops, no need to muse,
Grasses stomped by ruminant hooves.
The sand encroaches, land consumed,
The forests croak, their patrons doomed.

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