By Old Willy Longbeard
There are no chickens. That’s the trouble. There are no chickens.
The children don’t hear them in the morning saying a new day has begun.
They don’t hear them clucking around the yard all day.
They don’t see them eat all the left over food.
They don’t see them sometimes deliver a hard peck on the cat’s head.
The children don’t see them mating.
That’s the birds and the bees.
They don’t see that it takes a male and a female.
They don’t see the eggs laid.
They don’t see them squawking and warning and running when the hawks come sweeping down.
They don’t see their heads chopped off and see them skinned and ovenized.
Instead they get MTV and computer screens. That sure isn’t the same thing.
Most towns have outlawed chickens. Health and noise concerns they say.
But cars are OK. No problem having cars. Ha! Cars can’t produce eggs or poultry. Fowl, I say.
Authorities know there are pot houses but they continue operating. They know there are crystal meth houses but they can’t seem to touch them. But if you got chickens you have to pay a fine. It is all chicken poop if you ask me. But you didn’t ask me so never mind.
‘Til next time. Farewell.