Many chickens passed away
So you could have a meal.
You killed them and ate their eggs;
How does that make you feel?
Many chickens were beheaded,
Plucked, and fried in fat.
Because of that, I feel full
And I’m okay with that.
Many chickens passed away
So you could have a meal.
You killed them and ate their eggs;
How does that make you feel?
Many chickens were beheaded,
Plucked, and fried in fat.
Because of that, I feel full
And I’m okay with that.
Filed under Poems
Like an inexpensive cut of meat
Stewed for many a lukewarm hour
You’re welcome when sold on my street
But far less welcome in my shower.
Filed under Poems
No one warms my heart like you do,
For three minutes on medium heat.
Our families and neighbors judge us harshly
But I’m glad, to you, I’m just a piece of meat.
Filed under Poems
They make blueberry, strawberry,
Blackberry jam,
But not jam out of chicken,
Venison, spam.
Why do we make paste
Out of fruits and such
But not dead animals?
Suspicious much?
Filed under Poems
It’s Fry Day at Sir Spatu-lot,
My city’s favorite dining spot.
You buy your steak by ounce or pound
Or even by the name of the cow.
If you eat ten burgers, you don’t have to pay.
That is just the Spatu-lot way.
If you eat fifty burgers in one sitting
You get to park in the handicapped spot, which is fitting.
It’s been ten years since my last Fry Day.
I was banned for bad behavior, you might say,
For when they asked what I wanted to eat
I asked for a salad without any meat.
Filed under Poems