Hard To Stomach Poem by Ima Ryma

The baby lies too weak to move.
Hunger has stilled the futile cries.
Food yields continue to improve,
Allowing for record supplies.
The baby's bulged eyes blankly stare,
As bent bones gruesomely protrude.
Around the world everywhere,
Bins are filled with discarded food.
The baby's short life dies away,
Deprived of anything to eat.
Full markets open night and day
For feeding fun - bon appetit.

One less innocent mouth to feed.
One more guilt on mankind - indeed.