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My Flesh Was Also Raised on the Farm An excerpt from a poem by MePoet II. The dead ones go out in the gutter with the shit. They are no more substantial stacked in a shovel. New mother sows flop like mistakes that never look down. The quick ones are fed. The slow ones are dead. And I understand "acceptable loss" Long before I hear the term. Pigs give birth to a litter. Litter is a numbers game. Litter is a crap shoot in the gutter. Litter is what is not useful the next day. This entire poem appears in the Poetry Journal PGI #5 |
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