Fantasy Farm Poem by Mary Champion

Frankie and Floss run a family farm,
no battery hens in their scheme,
just pure White Leghorns scratching round the home-yard -
as part of their pastoral dream.

Each morning at breakfast their egg-cups contain
tasty eggs all fresh-laid by the chooks.
The surplus is sold, so a living is gained
and they manage to balance the books.

The cattle that graze in the meadows produce
milk and beef that are second to none.
The sheep and the pigs give their incomes a boost -
and the whole thing's organically run.

This idyll is fine for the privileged few
who can pay for a luxury spread.
But factory farms are the best we can do
when it's billions that need to be fed.