Sacred Surgical Strikes

Quietly one cannot go
About an amputation.
Neatly neither can blood flow,
Nor sap and sawdust ever grow
Where limbs fly off and butchers crow:
In slaughter, their salvation.

In abattoir and arbor, they
Perform the surgeon's mauling.
The animals and plants they slay
Efficiently, both night and day,
Dismembering what doesn’t pay
To live — a breed appalling.

But doctors of divinity
Have sworn in sacred theses
That what man wishes, man can do:
The rape of many by the few;
The just deserts, the proper due
Of GAWD’s own chosen species.