Frankenstein omelette

A collection snatched from warm nests,
a goblin's rob for vanity,
but what to do with the children,
they sit inside, await their fate.

Under my breath I whisper,
this isn't going to hurt,
pin prick both ends and blow.
Blood, bone, sinew and flesh
splatter my silver plate.

A dozen breeds in total, heavy
in my murderous hands,
laid soft, boxed on cotton wool
they would find me that night,
staggered steps with wings outstretched.