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[the chickens are panicking
: Ladies, please. Let's not lose our heads. Bunty
: Lose our heads? Aaaahh!
: In all my life, I've never heard such a fantastic... load of tripe. Oh, face the facts, ducks. The chances of us getting out of here are a million to one. Ginger
: Then there's still a chance.
: The name's Rocky. Rocky the Rhode Island Red. Rhodes for short. Bunty
: Rocky Rhodes? Rocky
: Catchy, ain't it?
: Think, everyone, think. What *haven't* we tried yet? Bunty
: We haven't tried *not* trying to escape. Babs
: Hmm. *That* might work.
[Fowler is hesitant about piloting the Crate
: Fowler, you *have* to fly it. You're always talking about "back in your day"; well, *today* is your day.
[extends to Fowler his medal
: You can do it, you old sausage. Fowler
: [stares at the medal for a moment, takes it, and salutes Ginger
] Wing Commander T.I. Fowler, reporting for duty.
: Increase velocity! Babs
: What does that mean? Bunty
: It means pedal your flippin' giblets out!
[after Rocky leaves
: Perhaps he just went on holiday. Bunty
: [grabbing Babs' knitting, throwing it on the ground, and stomping on it
] Perhaps he just went to get away from your infernal knitting! Mac
: Well, you were the one that was always hitting him. Let's see how you like it.
: Don't push me, four-eyes.
[other chickens start fighting
[walking in on a jazz party
: Now see here! I, I don't recall authorising a hop! Bunty
: Oh, shut up and dance!
: Me tools! Why you thieving little buggers! Mac
: What's the plan? Ginger
[tackles a startled Mr. Tweedy
: [following suit
] Nice plan!
: You know what the problem is? The fences aren't just round the farm. They're up here, in you heads. There's a better place out there, somewhere beyond that hill, and it has wide open places, and lots of trees... and grass. Can you imagine that? Cool, green grass. Hen
: Who feeds us? Ginger
: We feed ourselves. Hen
: Where's the farm? Ginger
: There is no farm. Babs
: Then, where does the farmer live? Ginger
: There is no farmer, Babs. Babs
: Is he on holiday? Ginger
: He isn't anywhere! Don't you get it? There's no morning head count, no farmers, no dogs and coops and keys, and no fences. Bunty
: In all my life I've never heard such a fantastic... load of tripe! Oh, face the facts, ducks: the chances of us getting out of here are a million to one.
: We mustn't panic. We mustn't panic!
[after a second, she and the other chickens all scream
[Edwina has been sent to the chop after she fails to produce any more eggs
: Bunty, why didn't you give her some of yours? Bunty
: I would have. She didn't tell me. She didn't tell anyone.