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 the bird meets its fate.

From clamps holding its feet,

It hangs upside down with the others—

Not the kind of ending

They'd choose if they had their druthers.

They’re dragged through a cold salty bath

To stun them and keep them from thrashing;

A cutter then slashes their throats

With its deadly, silvery blades flashing.

If that were the end, they'd be lucky;

But most of their hearts are still pumping.

For ninety more seconds they’ll hang.

Can you hear the hearts thumping?

Dead or alive they are dumped

Into pools of scalding water

Where the ones that are still alive

Will flop and scream 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 used—

And I admit I don’t know ‘em—

To butcher our feathered friends are

Beyond the scope of this poem.

Regarding this bloody massacre,

Mentioned above, I maintain:

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 shit?

What about free-range poultry?

Be careful: you might 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 has no idea that someday

Its master will chop off its head.

I’m not trying to scare you

Or be indiscreet,

But we must all be aware

Of how we get our meat.

I could inform you about

What happens to a cow,

Or lamb or pig; however,

I'll spare you that for now.

(4-17-14) By Bob B