The Chicken Song

© Andrew Calhoun, July 2005

For you were born a chicken, and bound for misery
You were sent from a pent-up henhouse to a sweltering rotisserie
With your legs hog-tied and headless, your guts stuffed up your crotch
Rotating naked for all to see, should anyone care to watch

And when you were spun into golden brown, immune from chicken pox
They pulled you from the roaster, and piled you into a box
With a price stuck on the plastic, like a cupcake or a book
An easy chicken dinner, for those too cheap to cook

And when the Johnsons took you home and pulled you all apart
They ate your legs, they ate your breast, they sucked your marrow out
The father left the wishbone, the sister left the skin
The mom put your bones in a trashbag, in the box that you came in

For you were born a chicken