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The last oink
in lit corridors,
industries of all kinds,
a pig stands in silent,
no bearing room to shine.
no open fields,
or skies to behold,
the sterile process of yields.
his day passes in a forever blur,
a far life he once wished he may earn.
gone the days of autonomy,
such a wild turn.
the heavy machinery, wind down the silence,
as the others say goodbye.
his eyes once filled with a desired life,
now ending in strife.
nothing but a number, labeled on his ear,
a future he cannot bear, only one he fears
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the real life of pigs, is not a happy story, from the bacon you eat at breakfast to the pork chops you get on your birthday, a pigs life is a sad life.