Francis didn't give a [bad word] about the rollbacks,
overproduction, reduced demand.
He never gave much thought to disputed contracts.
In his short life he'd only ever known

panic, fear, pain, darkness and pandemonium
(in the [bad word] that was his home).
Fourth quarter earning expectations
expedited their demise.
The panic grew as the humans stalked among them.
When the screaming began,

Francis shut his eyes and felt the hand
of inhumanity [bad word] over him.
But his would-be killer's back turned for a moment
and a blinding ray of light spread across the floor.
In a crimson pool he saw his own reflection
as he bolted for the door.

Not just some fractured fairy-tale
although I wish that that were [bad word] 
This is a fable far too real.
Yet we somehow still cling to

The story lines that bridge the chasms
between cognition and belief.
Any old implausible denial
that might offer some relief
from the dissonance that Francis
left screaming in his wake
as deep into the heart of the city's park lands
he made good his escape.
And where for 5 months he ran free
and replayed his only fond memory
just a warm and distant dream of

his mother's loving eyes upon him.
Francis made it farther than she did
a quarter mile just short of the city limits
they finally captured him.
And there's a statue that the abattoir erected
to remind us all of their contributions.
To me it marks Potemkin City Limits,
this Francis cast in bronze.

(Turn around, I'm gone)

Not just some fractured fairy-tale,
although I wish that that were [bad word] 
This is a fable far too real,
yet we somehow still cling to.