When I was young, my mother would cook a stew,
It was filled with meat and potatoes, a scenic view.
The aroma filled the kitchen with smells grand,
We ate to our fill, forks filled, bread in hand.
But what we ate was not filled with steroids and goop,
The chicken was fresh, not raised in crowded coop.
The beef was not fattened with poisons that bloated their size,
The soup was not salted to the point that would be unwise.
The vegetables were clean, washed and fresh and colors vibrant,
They smelled nice and looked so clean and succulent.
We sat around a table that sparkled with the conversation of the day,
That was the past, and yet somehow it has changed to a worse way.
The food is tainted with drugs of hormones galore,
Vegetables are colored, shelved for days and sometimes fell on the floor.
The veal was raised in a pen with little room,
Killed by a cruel death, of that I assume.
And now we have cancers that have cropped up in mass,
Instead of the cure for cancer, what we eat has increased the numbers, of death, curse this surpass.
New diseases attack us and slaughter our kind,
Surely the increase of death is the omen, a terrible sign.
So go back to the clean ways of the past,
That sir or ma’am, is the way, the best.