He kills them one by one
So cheaply with his cruel hands
It is his daily job, the butcher.
From the cote are dragged poor chickens
Abruptly in their dozing the lucky ones
Sense the flapping of wings
May the victims rest in peace.
Spares none his bloody scalpel
The meek birds find nothing
But the hands strong and scary
Cuddling they groan as in prayer
To save their flesh sliced with cheer.
Fast is he in this hunting job
Neatly to satisfy the waiting eyes
Eagerly mob him for share
So many deaths, none seems to care…
Copyright © Moloy Bhattacharya
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