Repentance of the battery hen
It's not a nice life as a battery hen,
all of the time spent cooped up in a pen.
Cold and uncomfortable, with air that reaks,
you do have companions but they cut off their beaks.
It's not a nice life, the hours are long,
no rest on a Sunday - what did you do wrong?
crouching there still, never seeing the sun,
it must have been grave, this crime that you've done.
But when did you sin? You can hardly recall,
you've been in this prison ever since you were small.
If you'd strength to reflect, you surely would find,
some grievous offence carried out on Mankind.
Egg after egg, you don't want to lay,
someone else is deciding - you don't have a say.
There must be a God - that must be the cause,
that your whole existence is no longer yours.
But tired as you are, you still cannot lie,
no rest for the wicked - that must be why.
There are creatures on earth that need not have love,
it's decided that way by the powers above.
But you shouldn't complain, you're not on your own,
there's others around with sins to atone.
they made a mistake and now they must strife,
for having been born so low down in life.
By living their days, a life without sun,
they're purging their souls of what they have done.
But next time they'll know - if they live again,
to never be born a battery hen.