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Tex Dermott Oct 2015
In the henhouse, an egg hatched and a zebra emerged.

*More to Come….
I have decided the write a series where each part is only 10 words.
I’d thought that they were extinct until
I found one in the coop,
A genuine Jersey Giant, strutting
Up on the henhouse roof,
Twice the size of the other hens
As I said to my sister, Faye,
‘Where did it come from?’ She replied,
‘Not there yesterday!’

‘I go to collect the eggs each day,
Do you think that could be missed?
That bird is a giant,’ she declared,
‘So don’t blame me, desist!’
I calmed her down, for she used to flare
At the slightest hint of crit.,
‘Whatever it is, it’s here to stay,
Perhaps we can breed from it?’

There wasn’t a cockerel near the size
Of this random Jersey Black,
‘It must have come visiting overnight,
I joked, ‘from a neighbour’s shack.’
She wandered into the henhouse and
From behind an empty keg,
She said, ‘You’d better come look at this,’
And showed me a giant egg.

An egg so big that you wouldn’t think
That a chicken could let it pass,
Tall and brown with a pointed crown
And a shell as thick as glass,
‘Are we going to let it hatch it out,’
Said Faye, ‘or crack it yet?
I wonder how many that would feed
As a giant omelette?’

‘We’ll leave her be, and we’ll wait and see
If a monster’s there inside,
We might as well, if a cockerel
It can be the henhouse pride.’
So we let her sit on the giant egg
For a week, or maybe more,
Then Faye came running inside one day,
‘You’ve not seen this before!’

The egg emitted a humming noise
And rocked a bit on its base,
While through the shell there were coloured lights
That would fade then grow apace,
And as we stood it began to crack
Then pieces would fall away,
It almost gave me a heart attack
For what I saw that day.

For spinning inside the egg we saw
A tiny universe,
With a sun-like star at the centre and
Our planets, in reverse,
And as we watched it began to grow
To float out the henhouse door,
Swelling constantly as it rose
To the skies, with a mighty roar.

I don’t know what it has done to us,
The sky doesn’t look the same,
There are three moons now in the evening sky
Since the Jersey rooster came,
I lopped the chicken that laid the egg
And I wait for the slightest sight,
With an axe for the Jersey cockerel
That Faye prays to at night.

David Lewis Paget
ConnectHook Sep 2015
ϖ↑∅⊕↓☺↨☼♀


The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds—
let poultry roam the range.

I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with ***** tempt fate.

A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell, but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.

They flutter through the *******’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm—
yet question this progressive goal.

They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)

While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for *****
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.

Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.

Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.

China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
celebrating ***-aphasia
joining in the West’s refrain.

Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.

Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.

Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.

Then shall our earth, in glad array
***** dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve—but nevermore exhume.

Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer…
where hens have ***** and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.

The henhouse still votes hetero;
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.

(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.
)
Tex Dermott Oct 2015
As the tiny zebra grew, others saw and were amazed.*

More to Come…
Tex Dermott Oct 2015
The farmer collapsed graveyard dead upon seeing the tiny zebra.
  
*More to Come….
Tex Dermott Oct 2015
Only the chickens knew the zebra’s secret,  they kept silent.

*More to Come…
The day was wet, the rain fell *****
Like jars of strawberry jam, [1] a
sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes [2] a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon, [3]
(Or I am very much mistaken happy)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all's well,
Looks into the straw
To see there's no flaw,
Goes once round the house, [4]
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
As the large mother with a powerful spell [5]
Forced each in turn its contents to express, [6]
But ah! "imperfect is expression,"
Some poet said, I don't care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!

And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
"And must we, chicken, must we part?"
Its master [7] cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked "Return", [8]
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home--the hissing urn--
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He's missed the very last train. [9]

Too long it were to tell of each conjecture
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, "perhaps some needle pricked him!"
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed "a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!"
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng;
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
"The sight I have come upon
The stoutest heart [10] would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!"
At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first ****

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,

the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;

deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town.  A rooster gloats

over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,

over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,

making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:

glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,

each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"

Each screaming
"Get up!  Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled

"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,

cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that ****** beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,

and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

and what he sung
no matter.  He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

with his dead wives
with open, ****** eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.


St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;

of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."

Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, ******* raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
a little **** is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,

explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits.  Poor Peter, heart-sick,

still cannot guess
those ****-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran

there would always be
a bronze **** on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see

that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince

all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding

from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?

gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,

the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The ***** are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.
Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?

My father's voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I'm dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.

I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.

Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?

Don't you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don't. Perhaps I don't
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.

As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork's depths
and colors.

Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour's
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.

Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.
At the Roseberry Farm arbor where
Rhode Island Reds continually determine
the pecking order
Where spearpoint spurred roosters -
do honest battle in the name of the governed
A place where the continuity of the flock , respect ,
dignity and grace are treasured
The well being of all measured
Where the reign of Kings are subject to the congregations
pleasure* ...
Copyright November 7 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Birdhouses and farm bell gone ,  garden spot now a tangled field of grass and small trees . Farmhouse , empty and dying from top to bottom , flower gardens missing , iron kettle hanging by rusted chain . Clothes line , henhouse and both red barns are at the ready, but sadly , empty as well . Logging chains , bale hooks , pitchfork and weathervane ,  put away forever most likely along with lifetime memories , good and bad.
Terry Collett May 2013
They must be
A couple
Of right *******
To ill threat

The young man so;
One blonde,
One brunette,
Thinking themselves,

No doubt,
God’s gift,
Gift of the gab
More like,

Strutting their
Henhouse tracks
With feathers
Prim and proper

They like to think.
Smell the perfume stink,
The eyelids painted,
Nails clipped

And primed,
Tongues wagging,
Like tails of *******
On full heat.  

Karma has its way
Of making things
Right in the end.
Sufficient lies

To hang themselves
Given time, enough
Tall tales to drown in
Like plump frogs

Caught out
In the last fast
Downpour.
Like snakes

They spit their
Joined venom;
Like snakes
They prefer

The long grass;
How each of them
Moves like a hippo
To the waterhole,

Each with their
Swaying fat ***.
Bardo Mar 2020
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
  oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
  everywhere
My ****! He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.

He don't need no booster, does
  Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.

Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".

With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
  doodler.

                         I I

He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
  fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
  have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
  deserted him I wonder.

Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
  lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
   greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
  voice
He sings  in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
  still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!

O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
A bit of fun. An inspirational tale during these dark uncertain days. And a Very Happy St Paddy's day to All.
ConnectHook Jul 2017
Oh Atlantic is swell and New Yorker is gay
and the Times remains solid, a trusted mainstay...
but the greatest of all, and eclipsing these bores
is the valiant field-marshall of Info Wars.

When the dinosaur media die in the flood,
and our nation is thirsting for globalist blood
and what's news is left leaning towards formula-fake
every patriot knows: there's a vaccine to take !

Yes, there's Time for a Newsweek or Washington Post
and a glib documentary from CNN's host;
there's a Fox for your henhouse, there's Anderson C.
with a wink for the pretty-boys on your TV—

And of course there is Megyn (forgot her last name)
who lined up a hot date to accuse and to blame
but our wily commander escaped from the fray
with the evidence taped and the hounds still at bay.

We love Rachel Maddow. She's pert and she's quick
as she bludgeons the foe with that MSN shtick
but our Alex is scourging these media-******:
the intrepid commander of Info Wars.

With his supplements ready, he's up for the fight.
He's the heart of God's own anti-globalist Right.
He's enraging the tyrants. He's on to their tricks
(just like seventeen-hundred and seventy-six).

You can love him or hate him, support or berate
at your peril (our own Alexander the Great),
but please—do not misunderestimate.
He is less a George Bush and much more a Tom Paine
whose pure diatribes render the traitors insane.

So we love him. He's right. He has answered the call,
and we are the resistance. Let wickedness fall.
He possesses their gates. He's unhinging their doors;
the untouchable captain of InfoWars.

Yes, he's hoarse and abrasive—a cowboy with grace
as he spits it right back in the globalist's face.
He's got millions of hits for each hundred of yours
not to mention his elixirs, ammo, and cures.

He's the lion of Austin, renowned for his roar
that empowers the zoo while he's upping the score.
An attempt to suppress him will bring on the worst
and his beasts will defend what his enemies cursed.

Transnational sociopaths, bankers and thugs
and the globalist criminals pushing their drugs
when the dust finally clears will be scrubbing his floors:
he's king of the castle of InfoWars.

If his martyrdom happens, he'll rise from the dead
and then multiply YouTubes like fishes and bread.
Resurrected, revived, he'll ignite civil war
till you wish you had known what the Lord had in store.

If you hate him, you ****; you're a traitor at heart.
Don't belittle his gifting, his talent, his art.
If you cannot discern what is writ on your wall
then get out of the way. Let your empire fall.

Do not act cavalier, or he'll Cromwell your town
it will only blow up if you take the man down.
He's our knight; come the day and the laurels are ready...
hold back; keep your wit and your armaments steady.

My words shall strew honor where honor is due:
on the crown of each head of the InfoWars crew—
till his voice, with a vengeance, shall break on far shores;
the tsunami (and swami) of InfoWars.
1776 WORLDWIDE !!!!

https://www.infowars.com/
The fox in the henhouse

The settlers are burning down Palestinians olive trees,
No main newspapers care to report the truth the settlers are conniving
With the Israeli government to do this unopposed.
What we a witnessing is the destruction of a people who had
their land was stolen and hounded to elimination by those who chose
to believe what a scribe said.
There have been many massacres over time like what happened
to the Albanians and other minorities such as the Rohingya people
In the hands of the Buddhists.
We have had the Holocaust, but it is the first time we are seeing
The oppressed are becoming oppressors, and they are so successful
That if we protest, they are calling us anti- Semitic.
Terry Jordan May 2018
She knows exactly how the world works
Shares her well-read cynical voice
She wishes for miracles coming
Not believing our leader’s choice

She’s longing for Swords into Ploughshares
All words of war she cannot bear
Doesn’t trust The United Nations
Declares we haven’t got a prayer

The world’s Toolbox of Diplomacy
Lets foxes design the henhouse
She knows the top 3 richest people
Have more than HALF of everyone else

She shows how to make her life richer
Not relying on someone else
Has no sentimental view of life
Fully acquainted with herself

Challenging ANYONE’S opinion
Firing people up with the facts
She predicts trump’ll be on Mount Rushmore
His Nobel Peace Prize on his back
My best friend cannot be pigeon-holed politically, but aggravates me with her cynicism, that nothing can change.  I say HUH!
David Ehrgott Nov 2014
Way Way back in the day
With a top-hat in the shade
tents were pitched - seasons past
Way Way back when it was all a gas
I swear that at one time that it was
a crime, just to laugh

Well then you get a gun then
But it gets tougher than that
Down on Banta near Central
Here in Hackensack
and there's a choo-choo on every track
Hey don't waste your time spent talkin' to Jack
and there's a weasel in the henhouse
but we don't worry about that

Back when love was a crime
Way back when love was a crime
T R S Jul 2019
Pristine hens,
covered in golden feathers had penned
me a welcome note
to show me where all her, and their eggs were.


... I never stirred in the mornings,
because our rooster was a horror show.

He'd blow out bellows and blankets of snot covered win,
that began to make us feel like sinners for only living.


Still every day...
We'd sit there and lay.
And stay....
and lay.
Every day and every morning.

I'm sorry I wasn't more for you, Sir.
I"m sure you'd rather I were.
But all I am is a chicken, Sir...
Really!!!
That's all I ever really were...
Sitting in the henhouse to relieve pepper burnt eyes with the sound of Miss Trellie whipping the okra, willow switch in hand ,  harvesting eggs , adding fresh hay to each nest  box , ankle deep in pig dung , snapping crowder peas , Fordhook butter beans , pulling black eyed peas , resting on a five gallon bucket , mother nervously on the lookout for " Giant Serpents " more commonly known as King snakes and taking breaks with a mouthful of figs, plus all the cherry tomatoes that my overalls would hold ! A daily event in the Summer ..... Children thrive on routine , dirt , a mothers love and a long list of chores each and every day !
James Floss Feb 2020
There once was a
Grand Old Party
Formed against slavery
The Free Soil party

Defenders of the constitution
And the omnibus declaration
First to be President:
Abraham Lincoln

The 20s were the
Republican decade
Harding, Coolidge and Hoover
A decade sadly a century past

A temporal chasm loomed
Until conservative hero
Former democrat Reagan
Trickled up the elephant’s trunk

Take eye of Newt
And two from Bush
Alchemy trickery: viola kazam!
The great bamboozle began

It’s no longer conservatism
No longer less federalism
A horrible takeover
This GOP makeover

Fend for self
Wall off power
Distort report
All else enemy

Walk lock-step
Repeat refrain
Us not them
Say it again

My senator father
Is spinning in his grave
Fox in the henhouse
This Mitch debprave
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
IN THE MYTHOLOGY OF FOXES

The foxes blood
on the stone

still there two days
after

staring at me.

Only the day before
a daring raider

of my uncle's henhouse
the talk of our household.

But my uncle was patient
& stalked the lonely hours

until the fox
came to meet her death

thinking only of her cubs
& how big & bright

the moon loomed
tonight

and how the fearful thunder
of the gun

had ended
everything

and how now
shot through the head

her carcass thrown
behind a hedge

she finds herself
still staring bak

into the mind
of the little boy

even more aware
of her presence

now that nothing
exists

and how for
ever after

the boy
carries her death
cradling it
in his mind

trying to comfort
her

with his human
tears.
Joyously we would meander through the peach groves in the month
of April ... A hundred blossoms on every tree , simple everyday beauty as far as my young eyes could see ..
Grape arbors under diligent care , wisteria filled the cool morning air ..
The morning dew , wind blew life into rolling hillsides , Springs new calves played tag in the afternoon sunshine ..
Guineas always longing for new places to forage , piglets in the henhouse , Brown rooster wing to the ground , dancing a warning !
Noon heat and four o'clock showers , the church bell in town struck
every hour ..
Bethel Church would come alive on Sundays , joyous hymns that echoed through the country ..
Copyright January 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
A weasel will commit a massacre within the henhouse as sure as a politicians tongue will wag without respite , be it attached or severed !
Copyright October 26 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
The **** crows
the morning into being

whilst behind the henhouse
Auntie wrings a chicken's neck.

What runs around
yesterday

is today
eaten.

"Humans..." thinks the cat
"...are not what they seem!"
Have you ever walked the habanero row
Worked in spicy air that wouldn't let go
Run to the henhouse like stormy wind
Sit with the chickens till the burning ends* ..
Copyright September 31 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

*** Old Farm advice .. There's something in dry chicken manure that quells the burning sensation from peppers ..
Kurt Philip Behm Jun 2022
Talk about the future
and spoil the present
Fox in the henhouse
rats in the barn

Moment’s unspoiled
never in reference
Today, not tomorrow
prescience the charm

(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)
James Floss Dec 2019
It’s called entrenchment
Abrogation and entitlement
Perjury of responsibility

"I solemnly swear
That in all things appertaining
To the trial of the impeachment…

I will do impartial justice
According to the Constitution …
So help me God."

McConnell: I'm not an impartial juror
Graham: won't pretend to be fair
The Fox is in the henhouse

The process is unfair
And fixed from the start
By the stalwart GOP
Lauren Jun 2020
like foxes in the henhouse
no sanity to be found
neither residents nor caregivers
in this broken asylum
#gradschool
said the poultry producer
under his breath
the henhouse must always
be safe
so I'll enlist that friendly
bushy tailed fox
to keep watch over
my chicken's chafe

on returning to the farm
everything was so silent
no clucking could be heard
anywhere in the resident

but red feathers were scattered
around the cedar wood barn
and many drops of blood
had stained the wire's yarn

it was evident that a fight
to the death took place
and his prized hens were
shown not an iota of grace

there's a moral to the story
never leave a fox on guard
for he'll massacre all
the fowls within the farm's yard
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...

of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating

nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus  dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason

poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source

feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration

buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
******* (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades

raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment

scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another

hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack

of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth

loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck

under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
Weathervane, weathervane,
whither does the wind blow?
Will you learn to point the way
or will you just go with the flow?
When the fox would rule the henhouse
as the wind twists all around
will the weathercock crow midnight
without making a sound?
subtitle: the night i was the idiot in the box

Glare the distorted face
hark the effusive vitriol.

Recoil into sofa
reach out for control.

Switch off glass-canvas
turn on realisation.

No Fox in the henhouse
Only a single lone wolf.

Reflection unrecognised
reflect on what you’ve become.

— The End —