Stewing kettle of disenfranchisement,
a slow simmer, meat fallin’ off the bone
It’s poured haphazardly through a strainer,
this mélange unpalatable at home.

No one wants credit for the recipe,
and all agree it’s not fit to be served.
So lost in the sauce of this melting pot,
aftertaste as sour as pickled preserves.

As the heat gets turned up on the burner,
bringing the gumbo to a rolling boil,
the dark blood and innards float to the top,
hot splashes spill freely on fertile soil.

The dark cauldron hotter on the outside,
as the foul stench is pushed beyond the pale.
Force fed by any means necessary,
this American dish an epic fail.

Crying, the expendable citizen,
who well within their right to remonstrate,
beggars the question, “Who are animals?”
Slaughtered behind institutional hate.

M. Zane McClellan

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