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By Julian Drury
I was born a pig in a muddy sty,
While you were born a sheep in a field of grass.
Sheep are taught to look down on pigs, like me,
Scorned and heckled for our position on the farm.
Sheep look different from pigs,
Pigs look different from sheep.
Mud is a stain to the sheep’s white wool,
A bath of pleasure for pigs.
The barricades are made of withered wood,
Weak and vulnerable to time.
Sheep see the pig meals as slop,
Expendable garbage for wasteful beings.
We pigs are living beings,
Even if the sheep see us as unequal.
There is only one opinion that matters,
That of the farmer that breeds and rules us.
Alive are the pigs and sheep,
Separated artificially with lies and old wood.
Pigs do not ask to live in filth,
It is the farmer’s law and order.
Pigs and sheep should be allies,
Instead we are artificial enemies.
A collective struggle to live is shared,
Division thrust with careful plans.
Do not be fooled by the circumstances,
Sheep and pigs share the same fate on the farm.
The shepherd has the same intent to us both,
Killing and eating with disregard.