The Bacon peels away in cold ribbons,
Sticking to my fingers
As I lay it on the skillet.
With each strip
The skillet hisses and shrieks
Like a thousand dying snakes,
The Bacon shooting grease
High into the air
Like an angry killer whale.
I wield my spatula at it,
Daring the grease to approach me
And meet its dire end.
 
Now the skillet is full.
I watch the strips of pig
Writhing and bubbling in the torture
That I have brought upon them.
They cry out to me,
''Alas!  Save our sorry souls!
We have done you no wrong,
Yet you cast us upon the skillet
Like we are muck upon your shoes!''
Their pleas fall on partially deaf ears.
I cannot help them;
I have no choice;
I must cook them for Breakfast.
 
Carefully,
Oh so carefully,
I flip each strip of meat,
Allowing both sides to receive the pain.
As the Bacons touch the heat
A second time,
They burst into new screams,
Their sizzling born anew,
Their death cries resurrected.
It pains my heart to
Be the cause of such agony.
But I cannot help them;
I have no choice:
I must cook them for Breakfast.

Finally their moans die down
As their lives evaporate away
Along with the grease.
They are now crunchy
And I dolefully lift them
One by one
And place them on the platter
Like a corpse into a coffin.
 
But this is not the end--
No!
The hearse is carried to the graveyard,
Where the ancestors of this Bacon
Have long been customarily devoured.
It is the tradition of Breakfast;
And tradition cannot be ignored.
I set the platter on the table,
Between the salt
And the pepper.
It looks so innocent--
Just like any other meat one might eat--
But I am not fooled.
For Death has been here today.
And the Bacon is Dead.
 
But, after all,
I could not help them;
I had no choice:
I had to serve them for Breakfast.
 
Gross.
I ought to be a vegetarian.