I'm not guilty

I’m Not Guilty


I shot a horse, once, as it stopped grazing, wasn’t
afraid of me; I had fed it slices of bread, pressed
the rifle against its temple and squeezed. I had to
do it the farmer, my boss, didn’t want old horses
on his land, I was a hired hand. I’m blameless.
If you say I didn’t have to obey such an order it’s
because you have never been unemployed you
don’t know how it feels like to beg for money to
feed your family, burgers, fries and milk shakes

The horse had brown eyes and before it sank into
a heap of Italian salami it looked at me with
sadness, that did me in. I became a heavy drinker
prone to tears when telling animal stories. Wait!
Hold on a bit: “Is Italian salami made of horse
meat?” “Yes, and so is spaghetti Bolognese, but
I don’t care about your diet.” “How could you let
me eat salami and not telling me it was made of
horse flesh?” “Look it’s about my pain, not yours”