Welcome to My Poetry Site
Where Does Your Chicken Come From?
Where does your chicken come from--
The chicken you find on your plate?
It's probably in a slaughterhouse
Where it meets its cruel fate.
From clamps holding its feet,
It hangs upside down with the others--
Not the kind of ending
They would choose if they had their druthers.
They're dragged through a cold salty bath
To stun them and keep them from thrashing;
Their throats are then slashed by the cutter
With its deadly, silvery blades flashing.
They'd be lucky if that were the end,
But most of their hearts are still pumping.
For ninety more seconds they'll hang.
Can you hear the hearts thump-thump-thumping?
Dead or alive they are dumped
Into pools of scalding water
Where the ones that are still alive
Will flop, scream, and kick from this slaughter.
After the torture is over
All of the bodies are slated
To be gutted, plucked, and whatever....
They've basically been desecrated.
Other methods are used--
Though I really don't know ‘em--
To butcher our dear feathered friends:
All beyond the scope of this poem.
But regarding this slaughterhouse massacre,
There's one more thing I maintain:
The conditions before this bloodbath,
Are also not very humane.
The chickens are squeezed into cages
In conditions sometimes unfit.
How would you like to stand
Up to your ankles in s--t?
What about free-range poultry?
Be careful; if you look you will see
That despite the nice-sounding concept,
It's not what it's cracked up to be.
And then there's the farmyard chicken
That the farmer's so gleefully fed,
Which is unaware that its master
Will one day chop off its head.
I'm not trying to scare you
And I don't mean to be indiscreet,
But we must all be cognizant
Of where we are getting our meat.
It's almost time for dinner,
And so I've got to go.
So, what's on the menu tonight?
Teriyaki chicken? Oh, no!!!
(4-17-14)
The chicken you find on your plate?
It's probably in a slaughterhouse
Where it meets its cruel fate.
From clamps holding its feet,
It hangs upside down with the others--
Not the kind of ending
They would choose if they had their druthers.
They're dragged through a cold salty bath
To stun them and keep them from thrashing;
Their throats are then slashed by the cutter
With its deadly, silvery blades flashing.
They'd be lucky if that were the end,
But most of their hearts are still pumping.
For ninety more seconds they'll hang.
Can you hear the hearts thump-thump-thumping?
Dead or alive they are dumped
Into pools of scalding water
Where the ones that are still alive
Will flop, scream, and kick from this slaughter.
After the torture is over
All of the bodies are slated
To be gutted, plucked, and whatever....
They've basically been desecrated.
Other methods are used--
Though I really don't know ‘em--
To butcher our dear feathered friends:
All beyond the scope of this poem.
But regarding this slaughterhouse massacre,
There's one more thing I maintain:
The conditions before this bloodbath,
Are also not very humane.
The chickens are squeezed into cages
In conditions sometimes unfit.
How would you like to stand
Up to your ankles in s--t?
What about free-range poultry?
Be careful; if you look you will see
That despite the nice-sounding concept,
It's not what it's cracked up to be.
And then there's the farmyard chicken
That the farmer's so gleefully fed,
Which is unaware that its master
Will one day chop off its head.
I'm not trying to scare you
And I don't mean to be indiscreet,
But we must all be cognizant
Of where we are getting our meat.
It's almost time for dinner,
And so I've got to go.
So, what's on the menu tonight?
Teriyaki chicken? Oh, no!!!
(4-17-14)
