Helping A Friend Process Chickens 

Like an ancient pagan priest I stand,

My hands gaumed with blood and gore,

With deft flicks of the razor edged knife,

I perform my loathsome chore.

Taking living creatures,

Converting them to meat,

In hopes that others give their thanks,

Before they begin to eat.

The work isn’t done with malice,

Far from it in fact,

With the greatest respect and appreciation,

I perform this solemn act.

It’s the circle of life I tell myself,

We’re omnivores; designed and made,

Though some would say we first learned the art,

When Cain, a stone to his brother laid.

Their sacrifice will feed us,

They will feed us and the land,

Good food just like good soil is made,

By the work of the eye and hand.

I keep them calm and restful,

I try to give little pain,

I try to make this go quick,

As I turn to do it again.