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.