I am but a simple man,
‘n self-denoted poet.
Who’s lived ‘n died in four prior lives.
Tho’ this, my first as vegan that I know it.
I am twice a poet.
Once a woman,
now thrice a man,
‘n once a lowly pig—
(which alone was enough to convert one to veganism.)
‘n in all these, I meagerly lived.
Hailing from the 16th, 18th, ‘n 20th centuries.
‘tho before that I have no clear recollections,
only foggy, surreal conceptions,
‘n the occasional startling nighttime impressions,
but soon these all go poof.
’twas the 16th century,
‘n I, the wife of a cobbler.
Tho’ one to be reckoned with I was.
‘n I was . . .
Burned at the stake for heresy ‘n witchery.
Indeed, I was guilty on both charge—
A Crown‘s punishment severe,
‘n unbefitting such petty offence,
of little more than defiance.
‘n for this to burn at stake?
O make no mistake!
’tis no way to die,
‘n no crime fitting
to burn a soul alive:
Foul stench of flesh ‘n marrow burning,
blisters raising, boiling, bursting,
lungs broiled to a tender,
by superheated air rendered.
‘n in my last, everlasting recollection,
’twas the sight of my femur splintering.
‘n the eager smug faces glittering,
of the bastards who stood nigh,
passing judgment in their god’s eye.
’twas day one of the 18th century,
that I was born unto rhyme,
in a much, much happier time.
A scanty life tho’ more than pleasant,
my life as a farming peasant.
Hard work ‘n a simple way,
with a woman to grace my night ‘n day.
When one day . . .
High atop the terraces of Guangxi China,
the evening sky fill with myna.
‘n at age ninety-nine I drop,
dead atop a lush rice crop.
‘twas the summer of 1918,
the war no longer raging.
The allies had won,
alas we were done.
‘n thru the Black Forest we ventured.
Our spirits set high,
with packs loaded ‘n shouldered
‘n rifles retained tho’ cautiously loaded.
In a troop of six we made a journey,
for the town of Freiburg Germany.
‘twas there I met a lady,
who sheltered us ‘n quite quaintly,
her acquaintance I fancied greatly.
We danced ‘til morning light,
our laughter echoed out from night.
O she was a beauty!
Of a sweet ‘n charming duty.
Her name I recall was Laverne,
‘n I swore to her I’d return
when my stint in the Army was over.
But as our ship sail for home,
a mine drifting not far below
found us at sea all alone.
‘n tho’ I survived the blast,
a tank of kerosene caught fast
‘n our ship soon fell to burning.
‘n once again. . .
I die burning.
‘twas an uncaring winter
when a factory pig delivered a boar.
Birthed on a cold hard floor,
on a frozen December eleven,
nineteen hundred ‘n thirty four.
Nuzzled beside my momma,
I suckled her teat
‘n welcomed the heat
of her coarse ‘n dirty pelt.
‘twas a brief love . . .
the only pleasure we ever felt.
Then one day a man he grabbed me,
O roughly he handled me.
Cut off my balls
clipped my tail
pulled my teeth
‘n slammed me—
‘n I tell you!
That burning to death dare not compare,
I never saw momma again—
tho’ I heard her frightened cry
every now ‘n then, since then.
Locked in a cage for 200 days,
‘n with every painful hour past,
I prayed it be my last.
Till finally my time to walk the line
and welcome death at last.
With that I hoped all’d be over.
Let me die ‘n be. O please!
Tho’ here I am . . . again.
Defying me, denying me
a sweet ‘n longed abode.
I, now with purpose left untold.
—To hell with Him!
Let Death have His eternal death!
If I must be
than it shall be
I’ll fight to my last breath!
. . . ‘n it matter not,
whether they wear fur, feathers, scale, or skin
it’s their peace I’ll fight ‘n win.
~Peter the Vegan