You’re out of cereal, but the deal is a steal so you go to the next door neighbor
instead of the neighborhood store to get an egg or two.
You can cook it on the street to eat instead of meat
as a treat with pineapple as if it were ham or worse yet
a lamb, but egg is as harmless as a yam.
But poor old hen.
Think about it, if her life was graded from zero to ten,
you would hardly be able to count it with a single hand.
But the fact of the matter is that the hen is on a silver platter
that could kill to flatter the most spoiled of kings
who don’t know anything but the golden oil
they use to pollute while they wear their white suits
with an un-mowed lawn full of chest hair,
which is more hairy than a low-maintenance bear.
The king of kings,
he just doesn’t have a care,
he might as well go around bare with all that hair,
those natural clothes that nobody knows,
they just guess and stare at the small tease
of chest hair the king bares.
However, the hen on the platter is cold
because its pale, frail body is getting old,
waiting on the silver shine of a wealthy man’s table of time,
the platter is a terrible bind.
Though a blanket of warmth that hen could see,
on the chest of that man with the crown,
so curly and clean,
not rigid, nor pokey or mean.
“What a cozy place to roost!
It could give me an energy boost!”
thought the hen whose life was definitely
not graded to be a nine out of ten.
“A little den to lay my eggs!
Oh what lovely chicken girls and chicken men!
No one can deny the beauty of my future feathered kin.
They won’t be able to pretend that even though their life is not a ten,
that they live the life without beans in a can.
They won’t build things to spend,
but things to use as playgrounds and jump ropes.
These future chicks are million dollar hopes.
Now where are those silky locks
to get my babies in stock!”
So the chicken half dead and plucked,
clucked and pulled her way to the sleeping beast king man,
grabbing knives with her wannabe hands,
pulling herself along the old long table with wobbly legs.
Her balance was somewhat unstable,
so she dug out of her miniature backpack
a little rocket pad and matches to light
the wick of her awkward tale.
Off she went into a bucket of fat and darkness,
a new cavernous winter hell.
Cold sweat from the porous skin
gave the thirsty, dying chicken relief from her pain.
Oh, but she had so much to gain!
She just wished she had some pieces of corn
to be prepared to feed her little baby newborns
once they arrive in their warm abode.
“Home sweet home! This will be where we roam!
So to everyone else they better know,
‘When in Rome do as the Romans do!’ Yeah!”
Then the giant man stirred.
“What was that!
I swear there was something that I heard.
I hope it’s not a ghost.
It must be a hoax inside this new coat.
What kind of material is this?
Oh it’s the fur of a goat.
I hope there is no need for an exorcism.
I don’t have enough money to get another one.
That could be an awful chasm in my savings account.
But anyways, who made that shout?
Romans make me pout.
They can’t get away with that.
This is my place and that is my cat!
Maybe the voices are coming from inside my hat.
They can’t tell me what to do.
I’m too good for them.
I’m better than their teachers at school,
better than The Who, Scooby Doo, and the Mary Lou combined…
and your sister too!
So watcha gonna do?
With all that junk,
all that junk inside my chest hair?
You know you can’t stay in there,
I’m a big bear!
Give me some honey.
Or better yet, give me money!”
And the hen was scared.
She popped some eggs out and they were golden. She said,
“Here! There you go! Goodbye bear!”
She disappeared in the midnight air,
to a land of fuzzy man bear hair
to find some new hair to prepare
her warm life