Recently I went to a farm and on the way I saw many rules and regulations posted on the walls that were laid to protect humans - they told - the driver added that these were what they called the 'constitution' around. They also said that if anyone breaks these laws or even dares to say that they don't apply to someone, they could be taken to task till justice was restored. Trusting all that I entered the farm.
The farm was filled with animals, some good, some bad yet everyone crooked. This was their way of saving themselves I realized later... after all it is the straight tree that gets the axe in a jungle, isn't it?
Everyone lived in fear of one another in this farm, knowing that eventually they would all be dipped, fried or toasted and burnt in the chef's kitchen. By the by, the chefs here were strange people too, who cooked to please the few who threw them the money; they dressed funny too - perhaps to do evil, anyone must start to think they are different from others and the first things to show that is to dress differently I suppose - terrorists, military, priests, criminals and chefs too - some in white and the dirtier they were the browner their clothe got here too. There was this one particular chef who wore the dirtiest brown, as dirty as his dirty rotten ever-rotting mind I suppose. He never knew of the boards hanging outside that farm, perhaps he never knew to read or write and probably got to this point buttering, polishing, and God-knows-what he did do.
Everyone lived in fear of one another in this farm, knowing that eventually they would all be dipped, fried or toasted and burnt in the chef's kitchen. By the by, the chefs here were strange people too, who cooked to please the few who threw them the money; they dressed funny too - perhaps to do evil, anyone must start to think they are different from others and the first things to show that is to dress differently I suppose - terrorists, military, priests, criminals and chefs too - some in white and the dirtier they were the browner their clothe got here too. There was this one particular chef who wore the dirtiest brown, as dirty as his dirty rotten ever-rotting mind I suppose. He never knew of the boards hanging outside that farm, perhaps he never knew to read or write and probably got to this point buttering, polishing, and God-knows-what he did do.
One day, the dirty chef, grew jealous of one rascal who cared a rat's-arse about the weight he was trying to throw at everyone that seemed to have no effect on him. The dirty chef tried to reduce this rascal's dignity several times too... and still made no dent. Seemed like this rascal cared a damn about the dirty brown chef's pretentious presence which annoyed the dirty chef even more. The chef in brown played his last card and decided to get rid of the bothersome rascal who he felt was questioning his authority by now. He made a crooked plan with a few of his other crooked friends.
The unassuming rascal's end was charted and the drama started. The chef was the director and every other animal in the farm decided to play their parts while the other chefs in white sat still as his audience as some played along to fit into carefully orchestrated roles the dirty chef had scripted for them. The music began, the clowns in white robes danced merrily as the rascal was dragged and ragged and got ripped and torn. They even brought a black-robed friend who lived on a hilltop nearby who knew the constitution by heart (he said) to mock the very constitution he claimed to protect. He too played his role at the chef's demand. The chief chef meanwhile, closed his eyes as if in some deep spiritual realm and pretended to sleep, allowing every other nonsense to happen in the farm. He probably finally took the oscar I think.
The farm exemplified as the farm of the crooked, wicked and sick. The sicker they were, the more wicked they became and the more wicked they were, the more crooked they became. With every slice on the rascal's body, the merrier they got feeding on the dying soul. The climax reached its finale as the chef in brown licked the dripping blood from the rascal's body... twisting his cunning smile with a ripple that reached his meddling eyes as the chefs - white and brown, and every dirty old clown - came together once more, holding hands to dance around the pyre, while the farm animals scattered and hid and feared some more and decided to obey and to please their demanding masters and never to even think about standing straight - evermore.
Thus came to rest the rascal's soul as it soared,
wounded and torn as it detoured.
Past the farm and through the roads,
as the clamping boards chimed some more,
rattling a praise to a constitution
that only hung on boards.
