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He wondered through the salvage yard in search of some old part. He ventured to the farthest row and there he made his start. And, passing by a rusted Ford, he heard a muffled sound; That feeble whine he'd heard before, he stopped and looked around. 'Was coming from beneath the seat of the Fairlane to his right; The cry of puppies, newly born; perhaps just overnight. He thought how sad a thing it was for them to quiver there Without a home, a proper home, where people really care. But who has time to potty-train or money for the vet? Perhaps, someday, when things look good, we all could get a pet. A rational man, he thought it out; and, eyes directed up, He reached his hand beneath the seat and choked an extra pup. He felt for others, did his deed, his duty now complete; His service to his fellowman lies still beneath the seat. In the selfsame town, but a world away from this morbid junkyard scene, Doctors dress in spotless white with tools they boiled clean. They reach into the sheltered womb and end a human life; They do not choke the thing to death, it's neater with the knife. And someone else is spared again from shouldering their own; The doctor earns his daily bread, the fetus lies alone. By light of day this act appalls, and seems so far from right; But remorse retreats when crime occurs with victim out of sight.
Wes Stephenson

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