Contributions by Jenny Moxham & Alice Shore


A Voice For the Animals

To the tune of 'The Times They Are A'Changing' by Bob Dylan

We're fighting to set all the animals free, 
To release them from bondage and man's tyranny 
And we'll never give up 'til each one of them's free 
For their pain is our pain and it's hurting; 
And the truth must be told 
By the fearless and bold 
For the times they are a'changing.

There's no-one to save them except you and me,
And we'll never give up on them 'til they are free. 
If it takes us a lifetime that's how it must be, 
And truth will win out in the end; 
For justice and right 
Surely overcome might 
And the times they are a'changing.

And when you're downhearted and filled with despair 
Don't give up the fight for you've comrades out there, 
And together we'll banish oppression and fear, 
And the world will be happy and free; 
And our hearts will be filled 
For no more will be killed 
Oh, the times they are a'changing.

So dare to have courage and dare to be strong,
And dare to tell others that murder is wrong, 
And give all that you have and give all that you can, 
And success will be ours in the dawning; 
And sorrow and pain 
Will never more reign 
For the times they are a'changing.

Each day of your lifetime where 'ere you may be, 
Be a voice for the animals 'til they are free. 
Enlighten the ignorant, make the blind see, 
And this slavery surely will end; 
And with banners unfurled 
Let us shout to the world, 
Oh, the times they are a'changing.

By Jenny Moxham

The Great Turkey Escape

This poem is to encourage empathy in consumers 

(In the style of The Man from Snowy River)

There was movement in the turkey shed, for word had passed around

That a comrade from the shed had got away,

And had joined some wild bush turkeys, who were waiting, now, outside

With a plan for their escape this very day.

They had met a chap called Santa, which was fortunate indeed,

For he'd told them of the farmer's cruel intention.

They had learned that every turkey in the shed would soon be killed,

So their comrade begged for Santa's intervention.

It was now the dead of night and, as the farmer soundly slept,

Santa opened up the doors for their escape,

All the turkeys were ecstatic as they fled that dreadful shed

And the sight that they beheld left them agape.

The field was filled with reindeer and each reindeer pulled a sleigh,

"Now come along" The jolly fellow smiled.

"Just climb aboard and we'll be off, there's room for everyone,"

So into all the sleighs the turkeys piled.

All night the trusty reindeer raced, across the moonlit sky

And as the sun came up the cavalcade descended,

As the turkeys tumbled out, jolly Santa gave a shout,

"Welcome home! Your days of suffering have ended."

"In this place you'll all be safe, and you'll never have to fear.

You can live your life exactly as you please.

Now I really must be off so Merry Christmas to you all,"

And with that he sailed away above the trees.

By Jenny Moxham


'Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the shed
Every turkey was shaking and quaking in dread,
For up on the roof they had heard such a clatter
They were all gazing up to see what was the matter.
Then all of a sudden the roof opened wide
And a fat, jolly man in a sleigh came inside.
He said, "Don't be frightened, I mean you no harm,
I bring you a gift, there's no need for alarm."
The birds knew at once they had nothing to fear
But what sort of a gift could he give to bring cheer?
Their lives were so dreadful, so painful and sad,
What present could possibly make them feel glad?
And then he explained, "You're all leaving today.
My gift is your freedom. Come climb on the sleigh."
He opened some sacks and the birds climbed inside,
Then off through the roof they went. Oh what a ride!
Time after time he returned in his sleigh
'Til every young bird was transported away,
They flew over mountains and flew over sea
To a beautiful place where they'd always be free.
And next day when the farmer threw open the door
He was shocked and amazed by the sight that he saw
Only feathers remained in that shed so immense,
Was it magic? Or ghosts? It just didn't make sense.
And so pleased was old Santa with what he had done
He decided he'd make this a regular run.
The farmer? Well he was so scared of the ghosts,
That now he grows soy beans for tofu nut roasts.

Jenny Moxham

Personal Choice

t's claimed eating meat Is a 'personal choice' 
But what about those that we eat? 
I'm sure that they too 
Have a 'personal choice' 
Not to cruelly be turned into meat.

Why is it we think 
That the choice is all ours, 
When others have so much to lose, 
For something as fleeting 
And fickle as taste, 
Why should it be humans who choose?

Jenny Moxham

I Had a Dream

I had a dream the other night
A wondrous dream in fact.
I dreamed that all the mums rose up
And made a mothers pact.
A pact to free their “sisters”
On each farm across the nation,
To free them all from mans abuse
And heartless exploitation.

The mothers vowed to free each mother
Cow and sow and hen,
Whose precious babes are stolen from them,
Time and time again.
These mothers made a solemn pledge
That henceforth they’d abstain,
From buying eggs and meat and milk
Derived from mother’s pain.

They knew without the mums support
These industries would fold
For farms could not keep going
If their goods weren't being sold.
The mums were right, the farms closed down,
The heartless exploitation,
Became a distant memory
Henceforth across the nation.

Jenny Moxham


Death Ship
By Jenny Moxham
An Animal Rights Poem from

All of God's creatures have rights, a fact that most people don't seem to recognize. This includes both human and non-human animals, but not all of them can speak for themselves.

Death Ship
By Jenny Moxham

When they sailed away from Devonport and left Australia's shore, 
'Twas as well the 50,000 sheep knew not what lay in store. 
The ship, the Al Messilah, was headed for Kuwait, 
Her hapless cargo destined for a cruel and gruesome fate.

Three weeks or more they'd spend at sea in a cramped and tiny space, 
Where many a sheep would die before they reached that foreign place. 
Three weeks in a stifling putrid pen in ammonia laden air, 
That would aggravate and blind the eyes, the pain beyond compare.

And when they finally reached the port and stood on land once more, 
Their joy would quickly turn to dread at the sounds and sights they saw. 
Strange men with sticks would beat them and would tie their legs together, 
And lock them in the boots of cars in searing, scorching weather.

And some of them would die in pens, the heat too much to stand, 
So different from the climate of their temperate southern land, 
And others sent to slaughter would be thrown down side by side, 
To await their agonizing death in terror, bound and tied.

Each one would see the ones ahead receive their cut of death,
Convulsing as they choked on blood and struggling for breath, 
Each one that sailed from Devonport would meet a fearsome fate, 
Each sheep upon that Ship of Death now headed for Kuwait.

In February 2006, 50,000 sheep left Devonport bound for Kuwait. Protesters in dinghies and kayaks attempted to block the ships entry to the port and painted the words "Death Ship" on the side of the vessel.

Carnivore Man?
By Jenny Moxham

We don't have strong
Digestive juice, 
Short gut, sharp fangs
Or claws, 
So why do people
Think we're meant to
Eat like carnivores.

With weaker 'juice' 
And lengthy gut, 
Short teeth and
Sliding jaw, 
Man's diet clearly
Should be more
Like ape and herbivore.

Anatomy of a carnivore: Stomach that secretes hydrochloric acid to break down protein and kill bacteria found in decaying flesh; short and simple large intestine for fast elimination; long, sharp, curved canines for stabbing, tearing and killing prey; wide mouth and powerful jaws for seizing and dismembering prey; sharp claws.

Once Again

It's the first Tuesday,

an Australian November, 

the day of frivolity and cruelty.

The frivolous don't care,

parade in their finery

much falseness here,

no thought for those

 non-frivolous beings, 

trapped in human greed,

confined in stalls,

bones and muscles aching from overuse and over-medication

stomach ulcer growing,

whelts and bruises on sensitive skins from last week's race.

It's the first Tuesday

a Melbourne November.

The human nation waits.

It will be over soon.

The majority of the others will break down


turned out for breeding,

the lucky mares,

diced into pet food cans,

the luckless geldings

and a stallion or two retired with his harem.

It's the first Tuesday,

a Flemington November,

and outside the gates,

on the grass,

compassionate humans,

numbers growing year by year,

will have their "Not the Cup" Event,

always with one ear listening to the race call

and praying

that the others survive

this time,


Alice Shore

Backyard Birds!

Backyard birds!
Almost everybody has them
And I have to say it fills me with dismay,
Every time I have to go into
Some other person's yard,
And I see those wire cages tucked away.

Backyard birds!
Why do people have to have them
When they've every other thing for fun and leisure,
It seems so very mean to be
So generous with themselves
Yet deprive a little bird of every pleasure

By Jenny Moxham

A gift?

Don't give a goat as a gift
Though some charities tell us we should,
Don't give a goat as a gift
Though we're made to believe it's "all good".

For goats will degrade and destroy precious land
They'll drink precious water, turn grass into sand,
They'll rapidly eat every bush that's on hand
Don't give a goat as a gift.

Don't give a goat to the poor
Give them plants and some tools and a bore.
These will help them to grow even more
And food for the future ensure.

And please think of the fate of these creatures so sweet
Who'll be milked 'til they're dry and then butchered for meat,
Empowering the poor to grow plant food to eat
Is undoubtedly better for all.

By Jenny Moxham

How Many Lives Does a Wombat Have

You made the papers, 

Tatiana Boganova,

a nice photo,

you on you carer's shoulder,

facing the camera,

after twenty-four hours of scurrying across the Adelaide Hills,

as fast - or as slow - 

as wombat legs will go.

You made the radio,

Tatiana Bognova,

news of you knocking on a Stirling door,

waddling down the passageway,

seeking out the guest room

and putting yourself to bed,

15K from your Macclesfield sanctuary.

You made us sigh with relief,

Tatiana Boganova,

with an earlier near-death encounter

when an irate farmer

cruelly filled in your burrow,

you resting inside,

Wombat Awareness girls quick

to dig you out.

Stay in the sanctuary,

Tatiana Boganova,

with your wombat friends.

You are not

a nine- lives-cat.

Alice Shore

Sheep Shall Safely Graze

Handel sings to us in his Messiah,

"He shall feed his flocks like a shepherd

and gently lead those that are young."

Not on the live sheep export boats. 

No Messiah.

No space.

No fresh air.

No easy access to feed and water.

No firm earth.

The tossing sea.

Piles of faeces where the weak, tired, ill and young fall, are trampled or drowned.

No Shepherd.

Mere greed.


Meanwhile my gentle dog Barley,

Thirteen years of Earth rural life,

dies peacefully last Monday,

His life fading without cameras and 60 Minutes.

"Nephritic failure," the vet says.

A kind being as harmless as the sheep,

but not abandoned.

Alice Shore

Animal Love

When folk say they love animals
They generally mean pets, 
They seldom mean a chicken or a hog. 
When they tell you they love animals
What they very often mean is
They've a fondness for a pussy-cat or dog.

For they'll fondly pet and pamper, 
A canine or a cat, 
Yet they'll happily ignore the cruel fate, 
Of the multitude of creatures
With distinctly farm-yard features
'Cos it seems they only love them on their plate.

By Jenny Moxham