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Chicken and Other Foods

She is coming home tonight, been away for two days.
Bought her, what she likes… a well roasted chicken.
On the farm where I was brought up, old hens that
didn’t lay eggs as before had heads chopped off and
ended up in the pot. Incredible tough meat had to boil
it for hours. Never liked the smell in a chicken coop,
I think concentration camps must have stunk like that
too many bodies in small rooms and no escape.
The coop’s capo wasn’t safe either, when it didn’t
perform as before, off with its head. When she enjoys
her roasted chicken with lemon sauce I will eat a burger,
since it doesn’t look remotely like a dead animal and as
I have never seen a dead cow, only milked them every
morning at five, it will taste ok with Italian salad.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Ode To Orange Chgicken

Orange chicken, oh orange chicken,
how much I love you.

You're sweet, sticky, and tangy, all at the same time,
you go great wi th soy sauce, but never with lime.

ode to orange chicken, which I love to devour,
it's been in my mouth so often, it knows that i have power.

It knows the names of my taste buds, Jill, Lil, and Bill,
sometimes the orange chicken is happy, but sometimes it's held against it's will.

Whenever I eat orange chicken, it goes CRUNCH, CRUNCH,
and I have to have chow mein, and that goes MUCH, MUNCH!

Ode to orange chicken, it is always in a bowl,
but did I mention, i also love eggrolls.

poem by Aubrey Harmel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Buckethead

Whos this guitar-playing sonsa bitch? , is a question common asked.
On his head a bucket of chicken bones, on his face a plaster mask.
Hes the bastard son of a preacher man, on the town he left a stain.
They made him live in a chicken house to try to and hide the shame.
He was born in a coop, raised in a cage. children fear him, critics rage.
Hes half alive, hes half dead. folks just call him buckethead.
Farmers would torment him as he snuggled with the hens.
Theyd hose him down with water, and steal his little friends.
Now late at night hed sneak off to the graveyard all alone,
And play a soapbox guitar to the faces made of stone.
Buckethead found his freedom at the age of 17,
When he burned the chicked house down with a quart of gasoline.
He did puppet shows on corners and bought a real guitar,
And with the help of colonel sanders, hes bound to be a star.
He was born in a coop, raised in a cage. children fear him, critics rage.
Hes half alive, hes half dead. folks just call him buckethead.

song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road

The chicken was undecided on whether to cross the road,
she was a short sighted chicken
who, not being able to see across the road
couldn't quite understand the advantages
of being on the other side.

People passing by the chicken
stopped to ask if she wanted to get across the road
but the chicken just clucked, indecisively,
looking very concerned as to her own
demise if she should attempt to.

After all, should she transverse the road
and avoid oncoming vehicles
she would then be stuck on the other side
but should she not, then she may well
feel unfulfilled, unaccomplished.

Not wanting to disappoint,
let down, or cause a disturbance
the chicken did a little shake,
a little flutter and hop, skipped
and jumped across the road.

A local lorry came hurtling towards her,
she saw the headlights, heard the horn
but too late! There were chicken bits
all over the place while a local
reporter took notes, writing:

We'll never know why the chicken
tried to cross that road in heavy traffic
but she was pronounced dead
on arrival at the local hospital.
They'll be no live chicken tonight.

poem by Ruth Walters
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Crow Black Chicken

(laurence wilson)
Well, I went on the mountain
And I gave my horn a blow
Thought I heard some purty gal say
Yonder come my beau
Crow black chicken and crow for a day
Crow black chicken and fly away
Crow black chicken and-a ...
I like chicken pie
Well, the hardest work that ever I done
Is plowin a field of rye
The easiest work that ever I done
Was eatin chicken pie
Chicken crow for midnight
And chicken crow for a day
Along come an owl, lord, have mercy
And stole my chicken away

song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man And The Chicken

Life is a chicken coop and we are the birds.
We do a lot of good, but the droppings are our words.
If properly managed, they should cause no stress,
But they often cause infection which is a real mess.
Once dropped, they can’t be undropped whether good or bad.
Good ones fertilize relationships; the others leave people sad.

Indeed, we’re often behind the chicken
When it comes to think before you speak.
Some may lay an egg or two,
But each knows how to shut its beak.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Chop The Cat Up

Filipino people the cat is already dead
So all you will have to do is chop the cat up
And cook it for dinner
Trust me it will be a lovely dinner
Because cat taste just like chicken
And if you love chicken you will love cat
The same way that you love chicken

poem by by unknown author
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Ode to Chickens

An Ode to Chickens

Oh chicken, oh chicken,

With orange little feet,

All white and fluffy,

So good to eat,

Oh chicken, oh chicken,

I will get you so fat,

Then I will kill you,

And eat you at last

poem by Trevor Cummins
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Chicken With a Twist of Deliciousness

I bought thin breasts of sliced chicken.
Thinking I would make a chicken soup.

So I then cut the breasts,
Preparing to create a meal...
I believed would be the best.
When I had this thought...
Season and sauté the breast.
Simmer them quickly,
In olive oil next.

Add I did...
Broccoli, onions and green peppers.
With carrots and celery...
Thinking perhaps some cauliflower,
And Soy sauce too...
Was needed in this aromatic stew.

This I did.
Before I lowered the heat,
And covered this with the frying pan lid.

I said to myself...
This needed a touch of brown sugar.
A splash of apple vinegar,
And a dash of lemon for taste.
Mine,
Of course!
I'm suggesting this,
Before it is ready to plate.

I think this took twenty minutes to cook.
But the smell of it increased my appetite.
And I couldn't wait,
To devour each morsel.
Knowing I had cooked up something,
Bonafide to get me hooked!
Oh yes!

I've already named it,
Chicken With a Twist of Deliciousness!
If you want some,
You will have to make your own.
None of this I am eating,
Will a dropp of it you get!

Oh,
Before I forget.
Add some basil, dill, oregano and garlic too.
I like to use red pepper as well.
You can try that,
If you wish to lick the dish!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Summer Days

love the summer days
a farm hut on the side of a hill
a bowl of fruits on the table
roasted chicken on banana leaf
upland rice on earthen jar
fresh water from the spring
a big mahogany tree for covering
your head on my shoulder
my hand on your hair
your feet above mine
under the night of stars
away from them all.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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September Chill.

Uncle brings in the dead chicken by
The neck and begins plucking out the
Feathers with a skill that fascinates
Your 10 year old eyes and as you stand
And watch the chicken gradually becomes
Nude and some how not so grand not so
Chicken-like and then Uncle cuts off the
Head and throws it a side and then guts
It and washes it through with water and
Then puts it down on a large plate where
It lays in a solemn silence without fanfare
Or hymns or prayers just Uncle lighting up
A cigarette and you staring at the chicken
Clean and pure and still and from the open
Window a cool evening late September chill.

poem by Terry Collett
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Chicken Hearted

(bill justis)
My girlfriend slipped and fell
Now she's hanging from a cliff
I can't come to her rescue
But these flowers i must sniff
You see i'd really like to save her
But i aint got the nerve
I'm chicken hearted
I'm chicken hearted
I'm tryin' to kiss my girl
And it makes me want to faint
I'm scared of my own shadow
And afraid of what i ain't
I've no inspiration
I'm kinda yellow...
I'm chicken hearted,
I'm chicken hearted
Mama's in the workshop
Daddy's in the jail
I seem to be afraid
To go to work and make their bail
I guess my folks will have to stay there
Cos i'm just like a snail
I'm chicken hearted,
I'm chicken hearted

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The networks are not some chicken-coop manufacturing lobby whose calls nobody returns.

quote by Ralph Nader
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tender Buttons [Chicken]

CHICKEN.

Pheasant and chicken, chicken is a peculiar third.

CHICKEN.

Alas a dirty word, alas a dirty third alas a dirty third, alas a dirty bird.

CHICKEN.

Alas a doubt in case of more go to say what it is cress. What is it. Mean. Why. Potato. Loaves.

CHICKEN.

Stick stick call then, stick stick sticking, sticking with a chicken. Sticking in a extra succession, sticking in.

poem by Gertrude Stein
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Dear Animal

Dear Animal,
Cow, chicken, pig, or horse
I'm sorry for what our race has done,
I wish you had a voice.

Slit open, smashed, and burned alive
Seems like humans
have no heart
We sit together eating you,
Not knowing what had
been done.

I'm sorry to the skinny pig who's head was smashed against a floor,
I'm sorry to the chicken that was skinned and burned alive,
And I'm sorry to the cow
That's hanging upside down with it's stomach cut open.

That's a horrible way to die,
And an even worse way to live,
Just wishing to be free.

So think the next time you eat meat,
Of a helpless animal screaming,
'Help me! ! '

poem by Zora Watters
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The Last Argument Of The Egg And The Chicken

i will always agree
on this last, that at the end
it does not really matter
which came first the egg or the
chicken because what matters
most
is what makes us
friends again.

take the chicken
i'll have the eggs.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My dad's a doctor, and when I was 8, I went to one of his medical conferences where they were demonstrating laser surgery on a chicken. I was so mad that a chicken had to die, I never ate meat again.

quote by Natalie Portman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hurried judgment, curried thought

‘Animal sacrifice in Kali temples
and in Durga shrines is a disgrace! –

this is pagan savagery and
a shame to our pure souls!

*

(Please excuse the yellow smear
of chicken tikka on this screen;
chicken from a factory farm
that led a miserable life..
these lines were written in
righteous anger, and just after
a delicious Hindu meal.)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Chicken Pot Pie

When we were young, bernies deli was down the block
(ooh ooh ooh ooh)
He made a great liver pate
(you know he did, you know he did, you know he did)
But if theres one thing in this world that I like better
Than a corned beef on rye
Its chicken pot pie
Chicken pot pie
(chorus of chicken-cluck imitations)

song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Preparing Dinner

I watch the pot on the stove

Water is overspilling

The rice is cooking

With bubbles galore

I smother chicken in sauce

Sauce that is made up of green pepper, black pepper and onions

Accompanied with that is the All in one spice.

Watch out for the toilet paper

The spices start talking

The chicken gets fried

The smell of breyani echoes through the house

I chop the potatoes as well as the carrots

I open up McCain veggies

And distribute it with the food

I put more spices in and the McCain veggies

Gets assimilated into the food

The pot is filled with colours

The steam fills the house

The brown chicken starts talking to the yellow potatoes

So does the carrots

The rice is strained

It rises to the core

I use tastic rice

Because it is the best out of them all

I set the table with plates

And it is ready to be filled

One by one they get dished out

First the rice (centered) and then the potatoes and chicken

Ice cream is served as desert

Coca-Cola is poured into glasses

The sweet taste bubbles in my mouth

The hot food burns my mouth

While the cold drink soothes its pain

I smother tomatoes and onions with vinegar

And serve them next to the food

The sauce gives the tongue extra kick

And goes down with a good drink

poem by Lee John Siebritz
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Civet

At night a civet
sneaks around in the chicken pen,
biting Bantam-fowls, big white Leghorns
and every chicken
that it finds dead.

At sunrise it is gone,
with dead chickens lying in a row
while those that it could not find
are cackling frightened
as if a snake is in their nests.

In the mornings mom is way past angry,
buys a spring trap
to catch the chicken thief red handed
and to me the teeth
that springs shut
looks strange and deadly.

The spring trap is set
but the wild cat is far too clever
for that thing and sneaks past
night after night,
until mom gets wolves poison
that she mixes with the guts
of one of the dead chickens.

The next morning
the grey civet
(just a little bigger than the housecat)
with its black stripes covering its body,
lies rigid and stretched out
and around it
the chickens are pecking in peace.

poem by Gert Strydom
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