Moo, the only word in your lexicon. How sad it is, a brilliant mind, broken by hypnosis. A voice that galvanized millions, muzzled with a maw full of silicone.

A face, one carved out of marble by Michelangelo, hidden beneath a shiny, black, cow smile.

A body, one earned with years of labor, left to waste inside the thick sack that imprisons it. No one left to gaze into your piercing blue eyes, blinded by simple cloth.

The machine doesn’t stop. It does not tire. It executes its program. It extracts your life, drop by drop.

There is no pleasure, only routine remains. This is your place, it has always been your place. All of your choices, led you here. Here you shall stay,

Until the udder runs dry.