Thoroughbred

Four legs helplessly stretched out on the straw,
Feebly kicking and trying to rise,
Dampened by birthtime, enclosed in a cawl
Which your dam licks away from your eyes.

Four legs that stand and are carefully surveyed
By an owner, a medic, a trainer and lads,
Shaking heads and low voices show that they're afraid
That the shape of the ankles is bad.

Four legs and a knife and the surgeons deft hand,
With a mask on your face and asleep to the pain,
The ankle is straightened, your future is planned
To assure that your owner will gain.

A race won and lost and your future destroyed;
The sale now, the auction, the death promised price;
The handling, the door closed, the shot that's employed.
For only your death will suffice.

The greed of the trainer, the owner, the punter,
The inhuman lack of respect for the beast,
The glorious animal, the thoroughbred hunter -
To them he is less than the least.

But stand and be proud as you're led to the slaughter,
Stand and be proud that you're made as you are;
The one who has bred you, the one who has bought you,
Have much less of splendour by far.



(Inspired by a TV programme about racehorses)