webglider
Dagobah Resident
Hamlet: To be or not to be -a chicken - that is the question:
Whether it is nobler in the mind - to cross the road - and suffer
The disapproving clucks of judgemental hens
Or remain to become a commodity of a factory-farm
And by crossing, escape it. To be penned - to be encaged
No more - and by a step we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks of mechanical
decapitation
That poultry is heir to - tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To cluck, To cross
To flutter, perchance to fly - Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of freedom what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this wire cage,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a life
For who would bear the filth and scorns of cages,
The overcrowding, the epidemics, the surveillance,
The pangs of a frustated pecking order
The insolence of chicks, and the abuse
The patient merit of th' unworthy takes
When he knows his quietus will be made
By the swift progress along the slaughterhouse assembly line
Who would fardels bear
To cluck and flutter under a captive life
But that dread of prolonging this miserable existence
That undiscovered country of grass and freedom
From which no chicken returns puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Then to fly to others we know not of?
Thus imagination makes cowards of us all
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is (sicklied) o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
Such as crossing the road
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Whether it is nobler in the mind - to cross the road - and suffer
The disapproving clucks of judgemental hens
Or remain to become a commodity of a factory-farm
And by crossing, escape it. To be penned - to be encaged
No more - and by a step we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks of mechanical
decapitation
That poultry is heir to - tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To cluck, To cross
To flutter, perchance to fly - Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of freedom what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this wire cage,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a life
For who would bear the filth and scorns of cages,
The overcrowding, the epidemics, the surveillance,
The pangs of a frustated pecking order
The insolence of chicks, and the abuse
The patient merit of th' unworthy takes
When he knows his quietus will be made
By the swift progress along the slaughterhouse assembly line
Who would fardels bear
To cluck and flutter under a captive life
But that dread of prolonging this miserable existence
That undiscovered country of grass and freedom
From which no chicken returns puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Then to fly to others we know not of?
Thus imagination makes cowards of us all
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is (sicklied) o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
Such as crossing the road
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
LOL!