Murder at the Farm
A poem
A poem
They were so small and helpless, and they had done no harm,
but simply lay there quietly en route to Grandad’s farm.
I put them in the trailer and tried to keep them dry,
it seemed a shame to harm them, it almost made me cry.
When we arrived, I lifted them and took them to the yard,
I knew that what I had to do was going to hit them hard,
and though their skin was glowing, so smooth, without a bruise,
I was about to change that, as I removed my shoes.
I threw those little beauties down into a metal trough
and trampled them, and crushed them until they’d had enough.
Yes, I completely mangled them, yet I was feeling fine,
for this is what you do with grapes, to make Beaujolais wine.