Here come the butchers,
Doing their rounds,
Checking this and that.
Is there enough skin in the freezer?
I don't know how they do it?
Their minds must have been raped at an early age.
Have they no imagination,
These carvers of flesh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
yeah, they sort of walk around like robots trying to perfect the human condition.. interesting subject for a poem..well done