You can hunt them.
You can trap them.
You can kill them.
You can butcher ‘n eat them.
You can confine, torture, ‘n mutilate them.
Do it in the name of fashion, sport, science, ‘n pleasure.
Go to church on Sunday and boast of all your treasure.
You can adorn yourself, your halls, your walls, your tables, ‘n all
with furs, feathers, leathers, trophies, ‘n rumps of roast.
Yes, do with them as you may!
For today . . .
‘cause near the end,
There’ll be hell to pay.
When Karma (or whatever) calls you out,
in golden years or there about.
You’ll grow fat, obese, ‘n suffer the gout.
Your heart will spit ‘n sputter, stroke ‘n attack you.
As your mind—always a bit behind—
quickly melts away like a spring snow.
‘n your hands begin to shake.
‘n your skin turns ugly ‘n gray.
‘n your hair goes away.
‘n your balls shrivel up.
‘n soon you’re laid up.
‘n tubes poke in ‘n out,
‘n debts began to mount—
day in, day out—
just to keep a wretched ass alive.
You, such a pathetic cockalorum.
Come soon you’ll hope to die,
‘n all alone, frightened ‘n cold
you’ll wonder why Death so bold!
would do a God-fearin’ soul this way.