Visitor:

KFC poem
by tofuandpotatoes
(copyrighted)

outside they play, filling out their days.
eating, sleeping, running around.
they seem ok, as they "play,"
making no shreaks no sounds.

but in the back, in the sheds and houses,
they scream and cry and squirm.
boiled alive, legs ripped and chewed.
slammed against walls, the end of their life term.

sure, people say that these birds are ok.
they claim they are "humane."
so why do they cry, why must you lie,
why do they die in pain?

killing is never, no matter how you see it,
no matter what, ok.
it's still death and slaughter, torture and pain,
and it's still left unpayed.

How will you make up for it? how can you pay them back?
You continue to kill and slaughter and beat
so you can have that bucket of death to lather
and cover in sauce and eat.

so tell me, good sir, how do you like your chicken?
beaten, tortured, slaughtered, still kicking?
do you want fries or corn or maybe a drink,
or some sauce to dip in?

they use phrases like "finger lickin' good"
terms like "Kentucky Fried."
that taste you taste isn't really food,
it is chicken who screamed and cried.

it's always still death, "humane" or not,
and death always means pain.
they never had a chance, a will, a choice,
and they still die in vain.


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