Monday, April 7, 2014

b'gawk

Chickens
with apologies to Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never quicken
A poem lovely as a chicken.

A chicken whose dull beak does tap
At the Earth's dry, bitter sap;

A chicken that never looks at God
And says, "My wings don't work, you sod!"

A chicken that may in summer wear
A feathered dress, yet go nowhere;

Upon whose bosom judgment rests;
Who ultimately will be dressed.

Poetic dolts write words that sicken.
But only God can make a chicken.
in Volume 2 Issue 2

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