The Slaughterhouse Of Souls

No, doctor, I am not insane.
I’ve smelled the slaughterhouse of souls;
the batteries of tower blocks;
the uniformed dogs they control.

Who are they? The exploiters
who farm us and keep us in zoos
or dancing in their circuses
or as pets to keep them amused.

Doctor, you are not listening
to a single word that I say.
I may aswell scream like a tree
or bark or whinney or bray.

Keep your pills and pearls of wisdom;
as much use as Gadarene swine.
Hear God? Jesus Christ is a fly
they dangle from their fishing line.

I hear the flowers and the birds;
the beautiful voice of nature.
Blue sky, bright sun; these are my pills
and love, the pest they cannot kill.