Friday, July 27, 2007

Bullock UK 742266 2000001

Hear me Lord,
God of the drought,
God of the flood,
God of the melting ice,
God of the rising seas,
God of the globe on heat.

Hear me Lord….

Nor all farmers
drive trailers full of sheep
into the night,
in search of disease and compensation.
Not all farmers
employ migrant labour,
keep them in worse conditions
than battery hens.
Not all farmers
pleasure themselves
by hosing the mud from former secretaries.
Not all farmers
are unrepentant drunks,
beat their wives, or fondle their own daughters.
Not all farmers
poison kites, gas badgers,
or give their loved ones both barrels.
Not all farmers
hunt the fox in packs,
pointing flatulent arses at the sky.
Not all farmers
drive four by fours like tanks.
Not all farmers
keep fields free of crops
just for the subsidy.
Not all farmers
are inbred, genetically modified,
miserly, misogynistic, melancholic.

Lord hear me.
Have mercy
on those honest farmers.

You might think this a strange poem to come from
the pen of an atheist, but it seemed too good a chance
to observe some of the ironies involved in this story
and to put it bluntly I just got pissed off at the queues
of farmers at the Royal Welsh Show, all keen to share
their misery with the Skanda Vale Community and
mock the idea of a bullock as sacred?. Is
that any stranger than wearing a celice under your
skirt and trotting off once a week to taste the flesh and
drink the blood of the Son of God? Is it any crazier than
believing that a former member of the Hitler Youth is
infallible? Is it more harmful than forcing Palestinians
from their land, then starving them to death with your
only justification that you belong to God’s chosen
people? Is it as ‘uncivilised’ as stoning adultresses to death,
or cutting the hands from common thieves?

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