Enter the man in the dressing gown
Showered in bright white shawls
Marked like the stain of a butcher
With hooves for hands
He speaks of the call of the wild
The animalistic act
Guided by pleasureless purpose
Like nature, we are
Clouded is mothers milk
As clear as the scientific truth
Uttering confusion
Turning boys into beasts
Only those with souls are sacred
And the way of life
Is the way of the knife
No difference, except difference
Mate for life, not love
Like the ones that graze
For the end of their days
Inside of a delicate box
He calls it a glorious gift
With no receipt to return
Then takes his broken arm
To a doctor with none
And far away in the field
Nature is truly revealed
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