Italian Sausage Poem by James McLain

James McLain

James McLain

From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By

Italian Sausage



The ice house in the middle hangs buchered pork and beef.
Smaller packages inter by the back door.
Different shapes what of them lays inside.
Cranking the grinder I watch from the back
as arms and legs are fed into the red bloody mouth.
The heads are sawn up into more manageable pieces.
They cant tell where this sausage has come from.
The customers want all we can give them at half off.
All the bullets fall into a bucket on the floor.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
John Brown 29 November 2013

A gruesome write. The last line makes it for me.

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James McLain

James McLain

From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By
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