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by Robert Focht

I was stoned on acid at four in the morning

and tried to cross the road, but chickened

out. I don’t know why.

Have you heard? On Easter Sunday

a kid exploded after wolfing down

twenty pounds of Peeps!

“Remarkable,” said Rhode Island Red.

“Although I’m still suspicious about

the confusion surrounding chicken

or egg. I discern no uncertainty.

It’s apparent ovum antedates.”

“Did Cool Hand Luke have the huevos to eradicate

Cock Robin?” catechized Friar Fabergé, his face

more pallid than three-minute albumen.

Cranky Uncle Jimmy’s same old story:

“Every Halloween those damned

trick-or-treaters egg me

when I chase them

off my porch.”

Remember how Benny Bantam ran

himself ragged, chanticleer sans tête,

elated after he finished reading “On the Road”?

Quite a feather in his cap!

“Oh, yeah!” I piped up, mad as a wet hen.

“‘Cause it was the same day my cousin Scrambles

got caught sneaking into the see-all peep show

at Madame Cleft’s Carnaval.”

“Viaduct, not a chicken!” Foghorn Leghorn

vituperated. “How many did you count

before they hatched?”

Humpty Dumpty’s cracking up,

staring down the road to perdition,

oblivious to ponies and princes.

After the sky had fallen, Henny Penny

was euphoric that she couldn’t fly.

About the Author

Described by his two rescue dogs as a neo-transcendentalist, Robert lives a solitary life in the ghost town of West Hoboken, New Jersey and divides his time between running headlong into fully-involved building fires and working on an unauthorized autobiography. He's had work accepted by Curating Alexandria, The Helix, Metafore, The Esthetic Apostle, Poached Hare, Deathbed Capers, and The Hoboken Terminal. 

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