Born a Chicken 

©2009 Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Living Room. 

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, with crispy neck and socks, 
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 folks that's loath 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; 
Mom put your bones out in a trashbag, in the box that you came in. 

For you were born—a chicken.

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