A Monthly Publication

By Edward Wheatley

Fry the egg from the battery hen

Who's lived all her life in a tiny pen.

Who'll never see the sky again

And die upside down in terrible pain.

Grill the bacon from the pig

Who's never enjoyed a good old dig

in a muddy field: nor grown too big

To be slaughtered on an electric rig.

Pour the milk from the limping cow.

She's giving 50 gallons now.

She'll milk as long as her feet allow.

She keeps on going – God knows how.

Yet still I go on eating meat -

Deaf to cluck and moo and bleat

My conscience always in retreat.

I'll say no more - bon appétit !