Colonel Sanders was a jolly ol' man
Built up a proud stomach
Held up by proud hands
In his mind exotic spices intertwined
What became a poor culture
For poor poultry in the near future

Cockle-doodle-do bellowed the big roost
The morning is born
Ready to set my hormones loose
Settled in my nest
Little Amy I would soon call
When a sinister antique in white scorned
Not you, your the prettiest of them all

Hammered to the earth
Imprisoned to the ground
My God where are you?
In times like these, he is never found
With sharpened syringes
They came in broods
Injected a formula
And obese I grew!

Inferior I feel as a blade pressed to my chest
I've learned soon
I will join the bloody rest
My child, my child
Stillborn may you be
We will meet up someday
If there is a heaven for poultry