Bovine Spirits of a Baked Land

I know you hate a slaughterhouse I know what you eat with slit tongues I know what lures your sly saliva I know what bites your bile and bovine I know what irks your intimate ingest I know you love beefed up truth I know you like cooked up lies I know you pore hot porridge I know you have chimes, crabs and nebula I know you meet your muscles and minion ego Unlike me, you cherish your bovine spirits and bile vines Thinking about a savage kitchen, you perish in my baked lands And I shall have you in my last supper in the retreat to unfreedom