Sophie’s going on a hen hunt
Up three mountains she must trudge,
Armed with just her boots and menfolk,
Kendall Mint Cake, tea and fudge.
First she’ll tackle tall “Hen Nevis”
Up and down and then to bed-
Up at four to scale another-
“Scafell Beak” stands tall ahead,
But it feels a little harder,
Sophie’s trying not to yawn,
So to stifle all her tiredness,
Thinks of all that lovely corn,
She will earn the hens in cages
Fading quietly in their pens,
Waiting for that special moment
They become ex-battery hens.
Down she comes, her car is waiting
Off to Cymru now she motors,
Feeling weak she looks for Mint Cake-
But she’s eaten all her quotas!
Soon Mount Snowdon looms above them
And to “Hen-y-Pass” they drive,
Park the car, ascend the mountain-
All to keep some hens alive…
Hens that don’t know air or sunlight
Hens that don’t feel wind or rain,
Hens whose lives are small and crowded
Hens that think all life’s in vain.
Down the mountain Sophie’s skipping
Blistered, worn-out, tired, knock-kneed,
But these trials won’t even touch her-
As she’s thinking of the freed.
So the cages start to open
Helped by careful hands, hens leave,
Off to find a happy ending-
Off to find a just reprieve.