BUNNY RABBITS "DON'T
CRY"
Blood soaked white
fur, pressed into the
cage;
a twitching, pink
nose conceals overwhelming
rage.
Number
642 in a laboratory of
lies.
They want us for our tear
ducts, our docile, pink
eyes.
Restrained in the
stocks, so that I cannot
move.
All for these
tests, but what do they
prove?
Caustic
chemicals, drizzled into our
eyes;
they watched
transfixed, enthralled as we
fried.
A torturous
existence, filled only with
dread:
this is the
life for which I was
bred.
My collective
unconscious, shows me carrots and
leaves.
They stole this from us
- they are the
thieves.
I also glimpse
meadows, where bunnies run
free;
utopian
pastures, I will never
see.
Perhaps in the
night, in the still and the
calm,
we can
escape and return to the
farm.
A place where the
victims’ wounds can be
nursed;
and with time, come to
terms with the heartache and
hurts.
It will only be
then, that our fear can
abate,
as they tell the
press, “It was all a
mistake.”
Fried bunny
rabbits, dead on the
floor:
a sight even a
vivisector would have to
abhor.
’Till then we're
condemned, to a lifetime of
pain.
For them our anguish
equals profits and
gain.
On supermarket
shelves, the shampoos that you
buy,
deceptively
boasting “baby, don’t cry.”
I long for the
warren, tempting me from the
sky,
I’ll be released from the
torment on the day that I
die.
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