☆sheep☆

We bleed into

The paper

That we hold

Marked and slasched

We stand maltracted

In our hands

The books 

The wheels

Are sticky

With all we are

With all we have

And its never 

ever

red enough

 

Never red enough 

For the measuring tape

The tests or the scales

And never warm enough 

For the pumping 

Of the machine

Mark our numbers 

Though outnumbered

A farmer

Controlling

Its inferiors ears

Put us

In our place

Through fences of thorn

needles and nails

We are

Ripped of bone and spine

Treat us 

Like sheep

Since you 

were born a swine