In the Name of Tradition
In a smothering sea of white
Gentle beauty is lost
Born and bred to be dinner
Whatever the cost.
Debeaked, detoed, crippled and weak
Disease running rampant
Your future is bleak.
In a huge sunless warehouse
Tens of thousands crammed tight
Kept like a secret
Out of mind, out of sight.
When your body is fattened
And you collapse from the weight
You are grabbed by rough hands
And sent to your fate.
Hung by your feet
Flapping and scared
Still conscious, confused
If only they cared.
Your neck is then slit
By a mechanized blade
As life drains from your body
You’re alone and afraid.
Another beside you
Misses the knife
Still conscious, she’s boiled
Slowly ending her life.
Neatly you are packaged
Shipped to every store
Butterball makes money
Spent breeding millions more.
Behind the tidy shrink-wrap
Is a mutilated bird
Who had feelings and emotions
And cries that went unheard.
In the name of “tradition”
Tens of millions will die
Somehow their sad remains
Seem so wrong with pumpkin pie.
very good poem,very sad but true though.i see truckloads of birds,cows&pigs weekly headed to slaughter,it just breaks my heart.good job on your poem,nice work.
Ronda Dietzler
11 Nov 09 at 8:34 am
Thank you for the great post!
Rosalia Cumberland
14 Jan 10 at 8:57 pm
You must know by now, your post goes to the center of the issue. Your lucidity leaves me wanting to know more. Allow me to instantly grab your feed to keep up to date with your website. Sounding Out thanks is simply my little way of saying bravo for a fantastic resource. Take On my best wishes for your incoming publication.
Damian Pelnar
18 Jan 10 at 1:31 am