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.