My chickens make me breakfast.
They’re the best that pets can get.
Eggs fried, poached, or scrambled,
And even omelette.
I object to killing chickens!
That’s simply just not right.
They give us free-range organic eggs
And even put themselves to bed at night.
Wyandots and Orpingtons,
Barred Rock, Black Copper Marans too.
If you sup on glorious chickens,
There’s something wrong with you!
My rooster calls out to his hens
for succulent treats like corn.
He guards against sneak hawk attacks
And even wakes me up in the morn.
Oh Eggs of many colors
My chickens lay for me.
Pink and blue and brown eggs
And even eggs of green.
My chicken each have fancy names
Miranda, Romona, and Stormy Blue.
You want to eat my pet chickens?
How could you! Shame on you!
If poultry poetry ain’t your thing,
I ask, Please don’t blame me.
All I did was complain about poultrycide,
Hence this bad poetry contest, You see?
Do you think chickens are great and deserve to be recognized positively via the medium of mediocre poetry? Enter the Semi-Bicentennial “Chickens Are Good” Bad Poetry Contest That Won’t Make You Bald (Probably)!