The Butcher Poem by John Doe
The Butcher
On the counter is a cut of meat
I look into it; dread in my soul
A cleaver
A razor blade
17 slices with no goal
Chasing the blood with an old stained rag
I cannot leave even a trace
If they saw
If they knew
I could never again meet their face
Deep inside I don't know why I keep coming back
Off the counter; back to the sham
Oh to be free
But that voice secures
'A butcher is all I am'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/29/2026 12:18:18 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
