There's a chicken on my plate,
He’s not moving much at all
He landed on my catapult
And squished against the wall

I couldn't burry him properly,
His family I couldn't reach
And I couldn't prepare the body,
All I had around was bleach

He smells like finger lickin',
And he looks like legs and thighs
He tastes like rooster's wife,
She's the only one who cries

If I sent his wallet to her,
Would she recognize his face?
Or resent the implication
That he's gone to a better place?

If I wrote a letter to her,
Said,"His death was not in vain"
If I showed the dinner plate,
Would she view me with disdain?

So I guess I'll eat him quickly,
So the evidence won't show
Knowing if she thinks he left her,
It may soften up the blow

And I'll wash it down with ice tea,
Just to cover up the taste
There are starving kids in China,
Can't let papa go to waste

March 3, 12:16 am
Copyright ©1998 Michael Paul