All life is sacred
Maybe some is more sacred than others.
The life of the deer is not sacred to the wolf.
Nor the corn, to the deer.
And nothing is sacred to a fucking chicken.
Slurp a worm from the earth,
Snatch a fly from the air,
Rip a seed from a pod,
Bite Charlotte from her web.
It’s all just “FOOD” to a hen.
Some chickens lay eggs, yes.
Others drive their beaks into them
to sup on the yellow goodness within.
Or whatever else they find.
All life is sacred, until you’re hungry enough.
Chickens are social animals.
And they welcome each other
by trying to break the necks of new hens.
If you’re too big to kill, you’re in.
All life is sacred, unless you’re too weak to keep it.
When a chicken dies, it stresses the flock.
But that doesn’t stop them from pecking.
The eyes and flesh of their fallen comrade
A snack for the survivors.
Even with a bounty of grains, they’ll sample the dead.
All life is sacred, but what’s left behind is just meat.
Roosters are cowards and rapists,
on top of being braggarts.
They’ll work their harems into featherless misery
Defending them only from rival roosters.
When predators near
proud cocks can be found
hiding under piles of their brides.
All life is sacred, and none is more sacred than our own.
Keeping too many roosters is a cruelty.
To hen and farmer and other roosters alike.
Nature makes far too many of them
For any farm or flock to keep.
Culling is a pretty word.
Exsanguination is lovely.
They both mean death.
Which means quiet, and peace, and health
That life would have denied.
Death, too, is sacred.
