Friend to the Knife

If I were a lamb, I would be a favourite of the priest's. I, being so docile and so sweet, Would hold very still when they loop the rope Around my neck. And then I would trot So happily along, with no need for encouragement— All the way to the altar, I would trot With the rope constricted around my neck. They do not have to tie me down; I will do all the work For them, and I will perhaps bleat once or twice But I lie ever so silent and still. My limbs are so soft that the knife is met with no resistance As it cuts through them like butter. I bleed so prettily All over my new, white wool That I can tell the priest holds pride. I am exultant for my guts to unspool, Like the most beautiful shining silk you ever did see— And within my eyes there is no pain; they hold no Accusation: they are just animal and dumb. When I die, I do not stay away for long: I am then a lamb again, with a thick, woollen coat— And how the priest does love me so That, for the sacrifice, I am picked again. He loves to stroke me and touch my gentle limbs As I am all his to love. The knife and I, we are friends: So, when the time comes, I hold very still As they wrap the rope around my neck, And proceed to kiss me through the cold metal of the knife— So intimate; so loving. I bleed all for them. How delicately upon the wooden floor My dead body lies.