the baby farmers

it's lonely in this unholy house
these haunted acres
and when we spark up the harvester
the incinerator
we're angel-makers

"May I have some more?" they say,
"Sir, may I have another?"
Infanticide by the river's side
to keep a lucky few
tucked under covers
rather than under-structure

there are city slums
and mining camps
that seek our service
cathouses' casual mothers
fill our purpose

T.B.C.