No sunshine on my face,
My living death a sad disgrace,
No beating of my wings,
A throat that never sings.
Prostitution of the word ‘Farm’
Is used to call my battery home,
I am dead I prefer battery ‘Shed’
Just to produce your breakfast egg.
Who has the loudest voice in this nation?
Sweet little kiddies get the standing ovation, so,
Little children of this land
Link your hands to form a band,
Circle your mummies to make a change
To free Betty to home on the range—with glee,
And always, always buy chucky eggs
BORN FREE
Chicken battery farms are still legal in Australia,
Betty is a chick, a very sick chick,
sick of a life of hell.
beautiful thank you for sharing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I am with you all the way.Now and then we get a present of some fresh eggs from a 'henhouse' in the country and they are so superior even to look at. Of course the hens are treated as family! What a contrast both for the poor abused hens and the unfortunate consumers in the case of the battery hens.Free range eggs in the supermarkets should be supported.Anyway your poem is very funny but you are getting a serious message across.