Essays
Aminals and
"Aminals"
For the Times; they are a
Changing
Mystical Transformation
Peace In
Our Lifetime
Redefining
and Elevating our Veganism
Reflections on
What I'm Thankful For
Vegan
Evolution
Virgil Butler - Bio
A Vision
of a Vegan World
You Are Not
Alone
Poems
$At a Hunter's Hang-Out
The Animals' Saint
A Baby's Story
Dark and Evil Days
"Do they care?"
Eating Babies
Eyes Of An Elephant
An Enigma
The Fawn Story
Forest Friends
Humanity and its Vanity
In The Name Of Tradition
Letter To My Unborn Child
Let's Not Forget
Little Red Riding Hood
Man May be Mad
Meat
My Love should be more ‘Dog-like’
Thanksgiving Wish
To My Daughter
Truly Beautiful
We Will
Stories
Downed
Cow
The Happy Child
A Lemming
Named Choice
Three Pigs
and A Wolf
Songs
Antilullaby
Companion Animal
Farmer Boy
Fight We Shall
The Greatest Gift
Here
How Can We Do It?
Listen to Chief Seattle
My God Says
Osteoporosis
The Racist
Sweat-Free Carols
In The Name Of Tradition
In a
smothering sea of white
Gentle beauty is lost
Born and bred to be dinner
Whatever the cost.
Debeaked, detoed, crippled and weak
Disease running rampant
Your future is bleak.
In a huge sunless warehouse
Tens of thousands crammed tight
Kept like a secret
Out of mind, out of sight.
When your body is fattened
And you collapse from the weight
You are grabbed by rough hands
And sent to your fate.
Hung by your feet
Flapping and scared
Still conscious, confused
If only they cared.
Your neck is then slit
By a mechanized blade
As life drains from your body
You’re alone and afraid.
Another beside you
Misses the knife
Still conscious, she’s boiled
Slowly ending her life.
Neatly you are packaged
Shipped to every store
Butterball makes money
Spent breeding millions more.
Behind the tidy shrink-wrap
Is a mutilated bird
Who had feelings and emotions
And cries that went unheard.
In the name of “tradition”
Tens of millions will die
Somehow their sad remains
Seem so wrong with pumpkin pie.
Gentle beauty is lost
Born and bred to be dinner
Whatever the cost.
Debeaked, detoed, crippled and weak
Disease running rampant
Your future is bleak.
In a huge sunless warehouse
Tens of thousands crammed tight
Kept like a secret
Out of mind, out of sight.
When your body is fattened
And you collapse from the weight
You are grabbed by rough hands
And sent to your fate.
Hung by your feet
Flapping and scared
Still conscious, confused
If only they cared.
Your neck is then slit
By a mechanized blade
As life drains from your body
You’re alone and afraid.
Another beside you
Misses the knife
Still conscious, she’s boiled
Slowly ending her life.
Neatly you are packaged
Shipped to every store
Butterball makes money
Spent breeding millions more.
Behind the tidy shrink-wrap
Is a mutilated bird
Who had feelings and emotions
And cries that went unheard.
In the name of “tradition”
Tens of millions will die
Somehow their sad remains
Seem so wrong with pumpkin pie.