The Mind Of Clive Jones

Who can see the children feeding the endless, ravenous hunger of the textile mill, mechanical mouths that aren't choosey: silk and thread, a lock of hair, a scrap of scalp, tiny, torn fingers. We only turn up the heat. Why think of the boys in the mines crouched over the chutes? For hours they sit, sifting the refuse from the coal, their backs bent. Old men by nine, black lung by twelve. Coal is heavy and hard, hands are soft and fragile; crushed, feet crushed, skulls crushed. Go for a walk; you see them. Poisoned girls selling themselves to men and women. A nickel buys a virgin; some are kept in cages. Babies, bought by men who raise them as livestock. Animals to abuse, soft flesh to violate, to tear and bite! 'If anyone causes even one of the little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and be damned in the depths of the sea!' They must open their eyes! They must open their mouths and drown!