Which came first:
The chicken or the egg?
Well, the **** of the walk
Of course!
You ought to know, silly kid,
That he has always ruled the roost, —
Kicking up dirt
Crowing all the live-long day
Fighting anything that he sees
All to prove his strength.
That's how he has always been, —
One day, he just wanted to take his dominance
That little step further
And so, the world gave him a hen.
So quiet and gentle
Sweet and demure
She balances him out quite nicely.
She spends most of her days
Resigned to her coop
Laying egg after egg
In her warm, dark room.
She attends to the ****
Whenever he wants her
Then becomes a living factory once again, —
Producing babies and food
Food and babies.
She does this for most of her life, —
Until she gets too old, that is.
She dries up, gets fat
And, by Sunday,
She'll be on our table for dinner.
Laughing and chewing
Clucking and squalling
We'll sink our teeth in,
Never once thinking
About how her entire lifetime
Was defined by giving
And the **** —
Well, it won't take him long
To pick out a younger, prettier chick
To take her place.
Which came first, —
The chicken or the egg?
Obviously, it was the **** of the walk, —
The one who screams his triumph at every sunrise
The one whose meat is too tough for us to devour
The one who will never, ever die.
Everything else is just a page in his never-ending story, —
Everything else
Is merely consequential.
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 1:21 PM UTC
Which came first:
The chicken or the egg?
Well, the **** of the walk
Of course!
You ought to know, silly kid,
That he has always ruled the roost, —
Kicking up dirt
Crowing all the live-long day
Fighting anything that he sees
All to prove his strength.
That's how he has always been, —
One day, he just wanted to take his dominance
That little step further
And so, the world gave him a hen.
So quiet and gentle
Sweet and demure
She balances him out quite nicely.
She spends most of her days
Resigned to her coop
Laying egg after egg
In her warm, dark room.
She attends to the ****
Whenever he wants her
Then becomes a living factory once again, —
Producing babies and food
Food and babies.
She does this for most of her life, —
Until she gets too old, that is.
She dries up, gets fat
And, by Sunday,
She'll be on our table for dinner.
Laughing and chewing
Clucking and squalling
We'll sink our teeth in,
Never once thinking
About how her entire lifetime
Was defined by giving
And the **** —
Well, it won't take him long
To pick out a younger, prettier chick
To take her place.
Which came first, —
The chicken or the egg?
Obviously, it was the **** of the walk, —
The one who screams his triumph at every sunrise
The one whose meat is too tough for us to devour
The one who will never, ever die.
Everything else is just a page in his never-ending story, —
Everything else
Is merely consequential.