Chicken Terror

Oh dear, they’re 

Back! How can it 

Be? They must be 

Here to torture 

Me! What did I do

To draw such 

Fate? Why aren’t 

Those chickens on a 

Plate instead of 

In the barn? 

Forsooth, with every 

Squawk I lose my 

Youth! Remove them 

Please, I cannot

Bear to think

That they are over 

There. Too close

For comfort, to be 

Sure, it’s terror 

I just won’t

Endure. I’m on alert,

My head is

High, my body

Quakes, what

If I die because

Some poultry

Got away? A

Lousy end to a

Lovely day.

So, I implore

Remove them

Hence before

I lose all

Common sense.

* * *

I do not tolerate chickens well. They are squawking, flapping, foul fowl with no consideration for others with whom they share the barn ... namely me. I like my peace and quiet. I like to stand over my hay and eat while contemplating my next poetic masterpiece without the constant cacophony of chicken gossip, like "My egg is bigger than your egg!" or "Oh my gosh, did you see the length of his feathers!!" 

Who cares? Go find a chicken coop somewhere!

Now normally I'm a pretty even-tempered fellow, but chickens just send me. I'm not proud of it, and I know my mother would rather I "get real," as she likes to put it.  But I, like everyone else, have my sensitive proclivities (Marvin doesn't like stud muffins; Jupiter doesn't like much, etc. ... names changed to protect the innocent ...), and chickens just happen to be something I don't like.

Fortunately it wasn't long before the human folk removed the evil squawkers to the other barn. Now I can stop looking over my shoulder and get back to the serious business of eating and quiet contemplation.

Chickens indeed!

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010