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Safana Sep 6
My face growing
like a sunshine
my chickens grew
up like ostriches
melancholy May 12
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.
Cherry plums for the small goat
Pits for the large chicken
Milk and water
Bury; slaughter

Remember to call me when it's done.
Torin Mar 27
We can stop and see the leaves
stretched out above our head
Our heads are not so high
And it's only ground we tread
My favorite part of life
Just to breathe
As I lay and watch the stars
I feel the ground beneath

Connecting me
We can stop and see the leaves
But what's connecting me
Like roots spread out in all directions
Our heads are not so high
It's the simple ground we tread
And in the soil
Our lives we toil

Yes our blood is in the soil
And I just breathe
I thank God for food to eat
I feel the ground beneath
As I lay and watch the stars
Stretched out above our heads
Our dreams are powerful
It's the simple ground we tread

My favorite part of life
Connecting me
The stars up high in heaven
The roots of mighty tree
And I just breathe
Our lives we toil
I thank God for food to eat
And in the soil
I don't know. Show the ground some love yo. We all stand on it.
Skip Cope Feb 3
I have to come out.. I won't offer lies..
there's something I just can't disguise,
my tastes are different than other guys..
I'm simply in love with chicken *** pies!

It started when I was quite small in size,
when mom shopped for her weekly supplies.
She worked all day and thought it'd be wise
to make *** pies one of her regular buys.

Loved 'em then, and this truth still applies-
Don't give me fried chicken wings or thighs,
don't serve a burger with greasy old fries,
don't cook fancy foods and don't improvise..

There's one taste sensation I dearly prize!
The best frozen meal you could ever devise!
If you want to impress or want to surprise,
just cook up a couple of chicken *** pies!

Now that this poem has reached its demise,
I'll pre-heat the oven and say my goodbyes.
I play chicken with the radio.
My crop suddenly stung
clucking in my
high throat no longer
stretched taught by laughter,
Or kisses bent back over shoulders.
No parting tongue

You're not coming back.

I should be glad (should)
but instead,
I play chicken with the radio.

Every love song now a car,
                            Speeding through,
My right of way.
My green light.

Beep beep.
Saige Jan 25
Chicken tenders and chicken wings,
I love all those chicken things.
But if you asked me about my own,
I would say "leave them alone".
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