dumb chicken 
proud red comb,
bout to cross
busy street
close your eyes 
chicken,
have you not heard 
the stories
of blood
and glory
of cousins passed
who fought
the street 
and did not last…

I shout to 
the chicken
my very
best words
but he walks
with such pride
as he steps 
off the curb
in this 
wheelhouse 
of madness 
where no one 
can reason
it's his time
to rise
to the top
it's his 
season.

onward 
he marches
so awesome
so sure
that his future 
is golden
he needs
no proof
that there's more,
on the other side
of the road,
he's one hundred percent
there lies a land
full of honey
a world
without
rent.

and yet
this road
is so 
dangerous
every chicken
should know
the legends
are ample
LEAN IN...
for the show,
I'll whisper 
what happens
shush
keep it down
for all his
rizz and his jizz
this red comb
a clown
he's banking
on promises
made by a king
in a world
of roast chickens
and fat men
who sing.

he's following 
something
an odor
a musk
a promise
of a world
with only
one kind of
lust.. 
a world 
just for chickens
without KFC
where the red combs
can roam
in their
feathered
fantasy.

doesn't
see it coming
he's lost 
in a stupor
he stuck 
in a dream
he simply 
doesn't hear
my unregistered 
scream
round the corner
it revs
steams a dark
limousine
an agent
of death
from a filthy
regime.

something is about to happen the likes of which we've never seen...

rubber
hits blubber
no sense of 
danger
everything's gone
for the chicken
now
a total 
game changer...

the air 
is so still
just stagnant
with smoke
nothing is living
nothing is woke
the cries
of the chicken
gone now
for all time
squashed on
the pavement
lost to 
the rhyme.

another fool
another mark
on a chalkboard
of scratches
on road
that's so dangerous
it kills
birds in great
batches
it's the call 
of the caps
it's the march 
of the band
it's the czar 
who demands
that they cross
to this 
land.

Is this not a 
confirmation
to the world
to the entire
chicken nation
that the 
other side
of the road
uncrossed
is not the 
land of the living
it's the 
hell of the
lost?

---- Appendum from Author ----

oh the foe
does
tariff me so
but it is the
chicken who pays
the full price
for eggs
squashing him to the pavement
reducing him
to dregs.

I realize this poem probably offends your judeo christian values,
And yet, unlike the chicken I don't obey in advance.

It will turn your cold sausage blue...

eyes wide,
dread and horror,
washed into the blue,
as the little boy runs,
away from the sun,
toward the fire,
back to the old,
fleeing from,
the new.

little boy run, 
little boy run,
little boy run,

turn around,
young son,
you're heading 
straight for the corn,
into the cold arms
of terror and scorn,
to the field
where the monsters live,
and hate is unleashed,
where everyone takes,
and no one
gives.

stop young son,
stop young son,
stop young son,

no hope,
this way,
the corn is jacked,
nothing golden here,
the lying lurk,
the heartsick hide,
and chaos reigns,
with his sister
called fear,
and his
other brother
nick-named 
despair.

shouting now,
shouting now,
shouting now,

stop,
little boy, 
stop,
it's not too late,
your future's not there,
with the rageful few
and the hateful eight,
this won't make,
america great,
stop little boy,
this does not,
have to be,
our fate.

he's stopping now,
he's stopping now,
he's stopping now,

staring into 
the field of corn,
forlorn, he sees 
the scarecrowed hitler
standing, arms wide
in mocked crucifix,
as the powerful monsters
hail
his horrifying reign,
into the face 
of this dark 
stain,
the little boy
fronts a fate 
so fucked,
it would turn,
your cold sausage blue,
an evil hell, 
an ugly hue,
not some small
persnickety 
indifference, 
where we could
agree to 
differ...
about the goodness
of the scarecrow,
and his
wannabee 
grifters...

run little boy, run