Monday, January 11

The Roasted Chicken speaks to the Chef

Vegans shouldnt read this poem at all. Its very drafty but I just felt like sharing.

This white cap is the
Real irony
You dress up, clown like
To undress me solemnly
This they call dressing

The way you hold me
by the neck
My body, fat and juice
All my feathers plucked
I hate my nudity

Don’t rub the black pepper
so rudely, clown
I have only just
undergone lime treatment.
Your idea of a wash

The freezer is no spa
I sit there all night
Fancy spices all over me
Oh how I prefer the noise
Of the barn to this wheeze

One day we will square off
When I stuff you with
Potatoes and butter, and
stare at you sinuously
Browning in an oven with shame!!!

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