Don’t make the feeding place
     my picnic mass grave,
you gulls of disgrace.
Dribbling butter,
spewing bile from your gutter.
Regurgitate the verbiage and stuff your face.

On rich tide gulls pick
     their desire
and leave shame crude slick
spillage of sin,
waste I get stuck in,
countless unclean rocks to lick.

It glistens on plates when they go,
     my compulsion.
I’m not hungry but hollow.
Unknown moistures,
paste unfit for vultures,
nothing my bin mouth can’t swallow.

Animals cold killed cooked
     without care,
spoils for jaws meat hooked.
Scraps garnished with guilt,
scant meaning for blood spilt,
jilts the ever hungry overlooked.

Industrial farming for a world bought
     cheaply in bulk,
the few have all and the many have naught.
Forsaken thrift,
come sit, search and sift
through the undigested food for thought.