I had to make a poem fast.
Not the best but "that'll do, pig. that'll do".
the onion skin broke
cracking and peeling in useless
death
like so many hands of the fated
humans
the skin ripped wide and chided
it's children
who lived and liked to cause
such chaos
it fell away to reveal the next
dead layer
of cells, tumultuously to molt
we had not killed it
it was already dead
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