A poem by a friend (titled: Lipsmack)

Being stuffed, it hated. But it did not feel:         frequency of jabbing and stabbing                 of gleaming tools,                         as gleaming as their owners’ eyes. To silence forevermore,         An apple– unorthodoxly shoved. Sight was not needed,         Eyelids sag in front of hollows. Blistered, seared, peeling skin;         Crackling crisps                 that sloughed away before greed. A posture of submission,         Legs torn off to pleasure. I love roasted pig.         Don’t you?