Priests, friars, nuns, and chickens never have enough.
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Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens
Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.
poem by Jack Prelutsky
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I admire certain priests and nuns who go off on their own and do God's work on their own, who help in the ghettos, but as far as the institution of the church is concerned, I think it is despicable.
quote by Frank McCourt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eggxample
What came first chickens or eggs?
Chickens of course!
Chickens have legs!
Chickens have feathers,
Eggs have a shell,
How would you like your eggs, done well?
This may be a 'yolk',
But consider it folk!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Much More Work to Do
Why are those chickens running around,
And their heads have been cut off?
'They've been conditioned that they are not chickens.
They've been programmed to believe they are constituents.
And that's the name they prefer.
It has stuck with them!
Like feathers attached to birds.'
You are what you believe, you know?
'I know!
And those heads?
They've never used them anyway.
So the running around,
With their heads cut off the way they do?
They've been told only 'chickens' do that!
And as luck would have it...
They can't see themselves that way!
No heads?
No eyes!
What about all those pots you've got?
'Well...
We've been promising to get one in each pot!
And that's the dilemma.
Like I said...
They can't 'see' themselves as chickens.
Nor do they believe,
We can get one in each pot!
So they are running around...
As if a lottery to be played,
Will be stopped.
And...
I don't have to tell you,
There's a lot of convincing.
With much more work to do.
None of this was planned too well.'
Or at all!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Folks say there is a lack of four sorts of people on earth: of priests, else one would not have six or seven benefices; of gentleman, else every boor would not want to be a squire; of whores, else married women and nuns would not carry on the trade; of Jews, else Christians would not practise usury.
The World Of Either Or
you cannot have the best of
both worlds
when you have all those chickens
you have to sacrifice your flowers
these chickens eat flowers for breakfast
on the other hand
when you keep those flowers
you must first kill all the chickens
as i once told you, this is the world
of
either or
not both
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If All the World Were Paper
"If all the world were paper
And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees were bread and cheese
What would we do for drink?
If all the world were sand O,
Oh then what should we lack O,
if as they say there were no clay
How should we take Tobacco?
If all our vessels ran-a,
If none but had a crack-a,
If Spanish apes ate all the grapes
How should we do for sack-a?
If all the world were men
And men lived all in trenches,
And there were none but we alone,
How should we do for wenches?
If friars had no bald pates
Nor nuns had no dark cloisters,
If all the seas were beans and peas
How should we do for oysters?
If there had been no projects
Nor none that did great wrongs,
If fiddlers shall turn players all
How should we do for songs?
If all things were eternal
And nothing their end bringing,
If this should be, then how should we
Here make an end of singing?
If All the World Were Paper
"If all the world were paper
And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees were bread and cheese
What would we do for drink?
If all the world were sand O,
Oh then what should we lack O,
if as they say there were no clay
How should we take Tobacco?
If all our vessels ran-a,
If none but had a crack-a,
If Spanish apes ate all the grapes
How should we do for sack-a?
If all the world were men
And men lived all in trenches,
And there were none but we alone,
How should we do for wenches?
If friars had no bald pates
Nor nuns had no dark cloisters,
If all the seas were beans and peas
How should we do for oysters?
If there had been no projects
Nor none that did great wrongs,
If fiddlers shall turn players all
How should we do for songs?
If all things were eternal
And nothing their end bringing,
If this should be, then how should we
Here make an end of singing?
poem by Anonymous Americas
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What's Going On With The Chickens?
What's going on with the chickens?
'No one really knows exactly how all of this started.
Or wish to connect any of this,
To the making of common sense.
They are baffled.
We are baffled.
And since it was reported,
Those chickens were going home to roost...
Well,
The abundance of eggs they once had laid...
Has been limited to quite a few.
And 'now'...
Someone has decided to use them,
In some foolish sexual preference dispute.'
And...
Who is that guy tied up to the chair?
'He was the one who first declared,
A suspicion he had that chickens everywhere...
Were preparing to come home to roost.'
Oh yes...
I remember.
He was the one daring to tell the truth about the chickens.
And he was labelled a racist too.
'What are they calling the people,
Choosing to protect their rights...
Not to cater to those with same sex appetites? '
Conveniently they have called them conservatives.
'Has everyone lost their minds? '
I have no idea.
But grateful I am to be a vegetarian.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Aint Nobody Here But Us Chickens
(j. cramer/j. whitney)
One night farmer brown was taken the air
Locked up the barnyard with the greatest of care
Down in the henhouse somethin stirred
When he shouted,whos there? , this is what he heard
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
So calm yourself, stop that fuss, aint nobody here but us
Were chickens trying to sleep and you butt in
And hobble, hobble, hobble, hobble with your chin
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
Youre stompin around, shakin the ground, kickin up an aweful dust
Were chickens trying to sleep and you butt in
And hobble, hobble, hobble, hobble, its a sin
(bridge)
Tomorrow is a busy day, weve got things to do, weve got eggs to lay
We got ground to dig and worms to scratch
Takes a lot of sittin gettin chicks to hatch
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
So quiet yourself, stop that fuss, aint nobody here but us
Kindly point that gun the other way
And hobble, hobble, hobble off and hit the hay
(repeat bridge)
Its easy pickin, aint nobody here but us chickens
song performed by by Lisa Stansfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Naughty Bought
They were taught,
They ought to learn.
To invest in a consciousness...
Valued and earned.
To be self respecting.
And reject temptations yearned.
But being naughty bought them,
Into the spotlight.
And they sought attention!
They could not be swayed away,
Or from it turn.
And that is why...
They choose to expose breast, nipples and thighs,
For fun!
Realizing they are paid when they are done.
In places where urges stray!
And 'hopefully' there are no priests...
OR satisfied nuns,
In the the darkness getting 'some'!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mutuality In Kindness...
the chickens
so many of them
make a music for him
who sleeps
on the haystack
he gathers the grains
to feed them
early morning
to the chickens
they found a master
at last
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Is Natural Is Best
i built a chicken house
but the chickens still prefer
to roost
on the branches of the
kamuning tree
last night it rained so hard
the chickens are silent
all wet they
peck on grains scattered
on muddy ground
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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People who count their chickens before they are hatched, act very wisely, because chickens run about so absurdly that it is impossible to count them accurately.
Oscar Wilde in Letter from Paris (May 1900)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Purity 1
I love woman
I do sex
I drink alcohol
And I declare myself
An impure poet.
Purity?
What is it
And where
Tell me a pure thing.
Lovers do sex in a resort
Teachers are homo
They do sex with their boys
in hostel
Priests do sex
with their nuns
But ask people
Be pure, be pure
Cuz, God is pure.
Tell me
where is that woman
Who has never tasted a man
A man
Who has never licked
cave of a woman
A woman
Who has not gave birth
to anyone
A man
Who has not sown seeds
inside a woman.
poem by Devil Poet
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Maybe Female Priests
Priests can't have wives so the job attracted pedophile guys,
Using fancy colorful vestments as a form of disguise,
But new rules should change and require priests to have wives,
So that the Catholic Church might again thrive and survive.
Indeed these type of ideas might seem to be sacrilegious,
But there was a time when this was accepted as religious,
When holy priests all had wives and kids and this was the norm,
Until they decided to change everything and reform.
It's obvious that the church needs to reform again and soon,
Back to the twelfth-century system at the first opportune,
It's also obvious that this should have happened a long time ago,
But instead we all learned from the hierarchy, how to kowtow.
Because the widows of priests were dependent on the church,
This hidden factor does not appear in an Internet search,
But there's something very wrong now that needs to be put right,
Maybe female priests could help get us out of this blight.
poem by James Bredin
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Decapitated Chickens
The decapitated chickens have died.
Their feathers are plucked, their skin has been fried
In the fatty animal oils too much,
In the boiling batter scalding to touch,
In the savory glazes now applied.
Their souls are preserved in formaldehyde,
Disinfected in a jar alongside
Forgotten flavors, seasonings and such.
The decapitated chickens have died.
They're prepared for gnashing teeth, to collide
With the grinding chew, the tongue's licking glide
And sour saliva's slippery clutch,
The contraction of the muscular crutch
To lacerate swiftly, to chop and divide.
The decapitated chickens have died.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Saints An Sinners
(coverdale/lord/moody/marsden/murray/paice)
Get ready for judgement day
An the final curtain call,
Dont lie when you testify
cos the good lord know youre all
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves,
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves
When moses stood on the red sea shore
Laying the law on the line,
He said dont come knocking
On the pearly gates
If all you did was have a real good time
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves,
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves
For what we are about to receive
May the lord make us truly thankful.
Saints an sinners
I stand guilty of a thousand crimes,
An I suffer temptation still,
Show me a man who wont give it to his woman
An Ill show you somebody who will
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves,
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves
For what we are about to receive
May the lord make us truly thankful
Saints an sinners,
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves,
Get ready for judgement day
An the final curtain call,
Dont lie when you testify
cos the good lord know youre all
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves,
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves
For what we are about to receive
May the lord make us truly thankful
Saints an sinners, priests an thieves
Saints an sinners...
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Social Chickens
i wonder why the
white and red chickens
escape from their
house
tonight they roost upon
the branch of an old
tree
so high that they can
see
above our fence
the road
the red and white chickens
too of my other
neighbor's yard
roosting on the other tree
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Maryknoll
Women priests are not allowed no matter how loud they scream,
They fired one priest already for going along with their dream,
So the Catholic Church takes this serious and no women priests allowed,
Though some priests may have been pedophiles; this is never said out loud.
Some Maryknoll fathers and brothers liked this women-priest notion,
They didn't realize this idea would cause such a commotion,
Though the Church of England has had women priests for years,
And some of them may one day be bishops without many fears.
I don't know much about this whole religious painful affair,
But I think it's time for a change in the real world out there,
This is the twenty first century with the Internet all around,
Not the fifteenth century where we had to knuckle down.
poem by James Bredin
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