Museo del Jamón: Museum of Martyrs

Whether dog will eat dog,
likes boot leather frozen or boiled
Or sliced
Or deep fried
Or raw, for that matter
Leads me to my boiling point
As I myself boil another meat stew
And my conscience spews into thin air.

Not that I should lament at all
Since 5 years ago
I'd chosen pride over conscience
Shedding me of both in the long run.
"After all, a vegetarian in a meat factory
is better than a vegetarian bound to the streets of Madrid"
Tears err my stew in the name of naiveté.

The emblem on my shirt reads, "Museo del Jamón"
And I wear this mockery daily.
Have I truly been reduced to this?
A simple artifact in the supposedly "great" Museum of Ham?
Damn pride, I'd be better off on the streets.

After all, it's far more pleasant
Watching pigeons scrounge for a halfway feast
Than watching noisy tourists and local gluttons
Eat more than the human body is meant to digest.

That gruesome sight digested,
That which is consumed consumes me;
I whittle what was once a pig's hind leg behind the counter
Whittling myself away
All the while being convinced by my manager
That I really don't have it that bad.

My suit clad superior whispers to me,
"In a distant land where your craft is slaughtered
A butcher's ring finger was gruesomely severed
I'd best not hear a word out of you
Unless you wish for a similar fate."

I reply and comply
With a loophole for which I am particularly proud:
"You ask me to do my job -
To slice that which is animal without a complaint"
I lay industrial blade to my skin
Once
Twice
Thrice
I throw said blade on my board with great force
Slam door to the Museum of Martyrs
Befriend a flock of pigeons,
who hunger as well for the sweet taste of self-respect
And starve myself to an eternal sleep -
The closest to dignity I've ever been.