My Hole

There was a building made of four walls
no windows and desolate walls
The foundation; oppression laced with steel
subduing one's freedom to feel
We live in this place of misery
a number in the chutes
Cattle, fattened up for the slaughters
so too are our sons and daughters
No escaping the "Hand" that shaped the world
illusions of comfort and safety
Here I am you and you are me 
but neither of us are enough to be free
Deprived of sensory satisfaction
the poison tastes good when starving
Sun tanned upon the butcher's block
our fate is in the carving