Eggs and male chicks

Huge sacks of bodies shells
And live birds
Really the egg industry
And it’s words
Not of wisdom
Not least
But of horror and pain
Born to be murdered
Time and time again

Suffocation and crushed
In a vast slurry state
Chirping along
With not long to wait
Sorted which sex
Female or male
A slurry of feathers
A wet sticky trail

Of blood guts and lie forms
That what we see
Those sweet easter chicks
Each one might be
Alive it’s heart beating
Each one a soul
Thrust into a sack
And left by an arse ole

Paid yes to murder male chicks
By the thou
Hundreds and hundreds
Some of them now
Left chirping loudly
Breathless and sore
Spluttering loudly
From deep in their core

I never eat eggs
I’m not part of the gang
That eats eggs and omelettes
Watching them hang
Out of large plastic bags
Writhing in pain
Left to rot in the sun
Their life force to drain