The chicken processing plant is a factory.
Chickens, hung by their legs along a track.
Their heads pulled off, their guts reamed out.
Their feet chopped off for soup.
Slashed and broken by workers with chain mesh gloves and the sharpest blades.
Breasts, tenders, wings, thighs, legs.
All tossed down chutes for packaging.
The rest, we send to the priests.
Who sacrifice the bloody mass to our Dark Lord.
With his nine thousand faces, we scream out his name.
He leaves a trail of blood and flame for us to follow.
As the chicken processing plant fades into the darkness.