Going to St. Ives

As I was going to St. Ives,

I met a man who had the hives.

The hives resulted from a life

That caused all creatures endless strife.

Killing was a way with him.

In pools of blood he used to swim.

He was blind and did not know

The karmic seeds that he should sow.

The things he ate he thought was "food".

The taste he loved; he called it "good".

Never did he stop to think

Of karmic chains--- forged link by link.

Holy Books had warned him, but

By now he'd gotten in a rut.

Never question what you eat.

Life is short and death is sweet!

  Isn't it?

Now the hives have turned to sores:

Big and ugly, puss-filled pores.

Oozing yellow, green and black

Covering almost all his back.

Still he goes upon his way

Ignoring debts that he must pay.

Life is sacred to each one.

The one we kill is Christ The Son.

Rotting outside, rotting in.

Death is eaten...heavy sin.

Why not eat your little dog?

He has chops just like the hog.

If you gave him more to eat,

He would fatten and get sweet.

Next in line would come your cat

When you don't care where you're at.

What's the difference in the sheep

And the pets you love to keep

Speak of love with blood on lips!

Pat your sweetheart on the hips!

Take a drink with lustful sigh.

Won't be long until you die.

On that day to death you go.

Pangs beginning at the toe.

When those painful spasms come,

You will find it's not such fun

                    Too late!