Chickens

Approximately seventy – five percent
of all chickens world wide
have salmonella.
I think it’s time we talked
about chicken.
We all have that friend
who won’t go near
beef, pork, lamb, bread,
Twinkies, Golden Corral, Fig Newtons,
Dick Cheney, tapioca, or milk,

but will swear on the health benefits
of a skinless chicken breast.
They’ll bake, broil, grill, or
God forbid, bread and deep fry the
flesh of an animal that eats its own shit.
Routinely.
What the cluck is that about?
“Hey, this tastes like crap!
Oh well, I’ll eat it anyways.”
Where do you think the term
“pecking order” came from?
The chicken who pecks first
doesn’t have shitty breath all day.
Filthy, stupid creatures
have no respect for General Tso,
or the Colonel,
or Popeye the sailor man.
“I feeds all me chickens
wherever they’re shittin’
I’m Popeye the sailor man.
Toot Toot!”
I wish they’d wash their
smelly beaks
whenever they visit the Lord’s house.
(Churches Chicken on 117th.)
Who knows what’s in the offering plate there?
I wish they’d wash their
boney little feet
before I eat dim sum
with Beth Noragon.
These mother cluckers
are a fowl embarrassment
that can barely fly,
and run around dead.
Just something to ponder
the next time you opt for
the safe chicken selection
at your favorite restaurant,
banquet, wedding, etc. that you go to.
Enjoy your exploding chicken Kiev.

— Conect11, Jul 24, 2007

About This Poem

About the Author

Critiques

weirdelf

18 years 10 months ago

Screw you

and the bastards that protest outside KFC. If I listened to anyone righteous or sensible at all I would never eat any meat again. Thank god I don't. Listen that is. cheers, Jess

barbsdad2003

18 years 10 months ago

I Just Voted You Here a Five

And I don't hand out fives lightly, being heavy-handed, ham-handed, and strictly vegetarian. Except for, I must admit, a few bites of wild salmon now and then in wintertime. You did a wonderful job of listing what I stay away from, including, of course, the chicken you speak of. When I eat wild from my home's outback, I escape artificial fertilizers, pesticides, yes, and salmonella and cohorts. What the woodchuck eats, I eat. And sometimes I eat what the woodchuck doesn't. It's all good. And I'm now on the verge of no insulin. My doctor thinks I'm injecting 16 units a day. I've got it down to two now, and I'm not tellin'. And my blood-sugar numbers are embarrassingly perfect. My A(1)c is down around 4.5. A typical nondiabetic's A(1)c would lie in the 3.5-6 range; diabetics do admirably well, according to the doctors, if they can get it down to 7 ... from a disastrous 10 or 12 or even higher. My last cholesterol number was 133; HDL at 54, LDL at 72. Triglycerides: 34. These are insanely important numbers for an acknowledged oldster ... and virtually unheard of for an American of any age. And with regard to a diabetic, there is no virtually about it: It is unheard of. Because these numbers do not show up for one with diabetes. In fact, triglycerides in the hundreds are a marker for diabetes. When I was Jess's age, I didn't put much stock in such things. I'm born again now. At near 70 I play sand volleyball all summer in the park with 20-25 year olds ... and hold my own just fine, thank you. They not only tower over me in height; they have hair atop their heads, too. During the winters I manage a top-ranked volleyball league team of people age 50 and over. And I play with them during important games, too. Thanx for a wonderful, wonderful, outstandingly wonderful write. Much appreciated here, Chuckles

weirdelf

18 years 10 months ago

and I humbly appreciate

you telling me the things I refuse to hear. Few could. My plan is to get healthy when I turn 50 in December. Smoking, drinking, chemicals, all that jazz. Cold turkey suits me. It's how I beat heroin 13 years ago cheers, Jess

weirdelf

18 years 10 months ago

p.s. you must have forgot to vote

or it would be 5/5 cheers, Jess

Quillsvein1

18 years 10 months ago

very

grotesque, unappetizing, and well done as far your message goes. made me uncomfortable, at least, and that is the poet's real function after all. shook me out of my chicken complacency. ( i've noticed you write very well whenever it involves food.) nice job.