Chickens
8 October, 2005
Author: Francis Santaquilani
what aren't they?
synonymous with coward
and the colonel,
a brain prayed by all
to not be compared,
absolutely convinced
the sky is falling,
immortalized in rubber,
inspiring costumes and
made sport of at ball games
and on used car lots,
plucked, drained of blood
in some satanarian ceremony,
squeezed into soup with
mysterious healing properties,
breasts more desired than
marilyn monroe's,
the state bird of Rhode island
and Delaware too,
provider of the perfect food,
poached, scrambled, hardboiled
or sunnyside up?
the standard of flavor
all are held to, subject of
the ultimate riddle,
yet, just a little, dirty bird
unable to distinguish
it's dinner from it's terd.
not worthy of capitalization.
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Comments on this poem/writing:
| anonymous (207.200.116.136) -- Sunday, November 6 2005, 07:41 am Just thinking? This bird could be the end to millions of people-"The bird flu" if it's virus is able to spread from people to people. No one will be laughing at it, but it will be feared. Nice poem I really enjoyed your poem. thanks Francis! |
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