the farm is on fire.


The pigs are sleeping
In the middle of the storm.
The building's getting a beating,
But don't stop to mourn.

Whistle the disgusting songs
That I hate to hear every day.
And continue to right all wrongs,
Even if they wern't wrong anyway.

The roosters have no heads,
And are running in circles.
They take in what they've been fed,
And use that now instead.

We've been sliding
To the other side.
Turn down the fighting
And on't look at the crime.

The cows are fleeing,
Oblivious of what they're running from.
No matter what they're seeing,
They don't care what they've done.

I'll decide on my own,
And make it out my way.
Even though she has never known
How to truly keep her stay.

You can hear animals whining
Early in the day.
Watch them fake slowly dieing,
To get more bails of hay.

You have no idea what I am,
No idea where you belong.
It is you who I can't stand,
Am I the only one who sees youre wrong?

Poetry by Tori
Read 344 times
Written on 2007-02-04 at 03:39

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you know, if you read every other paragraph, there are two different poems. i wrote them around the same time, then i combined them.

betsy Firefly
I liked the dying with fake just to get another bale of hay. That sounds like a lot of people I know.