Coopin’ I have made a poultry room;
feedin’ my chickens, which have great plumes.

They are free to roam ’cause they are not tethered.
My flock is literal birds of a feather.
They love to taste that chicken feed; they’re bred for
foodin’, which means what I gotta do:
do ’em in to make a tasty stew.

I might get PETA people after me;
they would much rather see my birds go free.
They are unhappy people…like to beat me—
bruisin’ me until I’m black and blue.
Beat me to a pulp, this pullet crew.
Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!

But from these people I won’t run away;
when the time has come I am gonna slay…
sell some of my product to Chick-fill-A,
though they’re religious freaks, I will still still the beaks.

Coupin’ I’ll be in the chicken coop.
Movin’ around in the chicken poop.
Gross, gross, gross, gross?

Chewin’ luscious nuggets.