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.
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: 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 is unaware
That its master will chop off its head.
I’m not trying to scare you
Or be indiscreet,
But we must all be cognizant
Of where we are getting our meat.
 
I could inform you about
What happens to a cow,
Or lamb or pig; however,
I'll spare you that for now.

- by Bob B