I am twin-horned, big-hooved and dewlapped;
also thick-kneed and sway-haunched.
I wander past the couch and slump
as Sleep the Stunbolt Gun
punches metal rod through brindled hide.
Slumber the Anesthetist
ensures that (strung up by knobby hocks) I am painlessly
throat-slit and exsanguinated.
Over the next few hours
the meatman busily apportions my shank, rib, and short loin
into white paper packages tied up with string.
NAPTIME
