till when the eggy morn has broke her shell,
as yoke & whites go slithering to pan-
by piggylard we're sizzlin'- frying ways to hell
with the breakfast of intentions as we can.
thus greased - asliced & layed our slab of ham
upon the cutting-board, we render flesh
to feast. transubstantiate the beast - i am
that which i eat & now i dine your death.
& milk bled from the udder - churned to butter
cut & hotknifed - spreads easily for bread.
to table: palms clasped, mouthing words we utter,
piousless & practiced bow our heads.
poor ol' dawn, her rosy palm must cup this daily curse,
& when her fingers red arise, i know which finger greets us first.
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