Bunny Rabits 'Don't Cry'

BUNNY RABBITS ‘DON’T CRY’ Blood soaked white fur, pressed into the cage; a twitching, pink nose conceals overwhelming rage. Number 642 in a laboratory of lies. They want us for our tear ducts, our docile, pink eyes. Restrained in the stocks, so that I cannot move. All for these tests, but what do they prove? Caustic chemicals, drizzled into our eyes; they watched transfixed, enthralled as we fried. A torturous existence, filled only with dread: this is the life for which I was bred. My collective unconscieous, shows me carrots and leaves. They stole this from us - they are the thieves. I also glimpse meadows, where bunnies run free; utopian pastures, I will never see. Perhaps in the night, in the still and the calm, we can escape and return to the farm. A place where the victims’ wounds can be nursed; and with time, come to terms with the heartache and hurts. It will only be then, that our fear can abate, as they tell the press, “It was all a mistake.” Fried bunny rabbits, dead on the floor: a sight even a vivisector would have to abhor. ’Till then we=re condemned, to a lifetime of pain. For them our anguish equals profits and gain. On supermarket shelves, the shampoos that you buy, deceptively boasting “baby, don’t cry.” I long for the warren, tempting me from the sky, I’ll be released from the torment on the day that I die.

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