Baskadia

I do the heaviest labor

But eat bones thrown away

To be sort in bushes.

I race with the prey,

Sometimes netted down by predators

But have to fulfill my master's mission.

Sometimes I'm hauled at for a slight mistake

But must satisfy my master's needs.

I have heard my master complain of injustice;

He brings choice meat to his wife,

At service time she serves

Not self service as her order.

Whenever she deeps her hand into the pot,

He's critically observant not to be cheated.

When she brings out an empty hand

Painfully as if scolded,

She has touched a liver piece.

But when brings out painlessly holding a piece,

Then it's a tendoned bone.

He complains and complains

Threatening to divorce her.

What of me, a good hand,

What should I say?

It's totally unfair!