Chicken Little out of nowhere he came,
Cute as a button, all fluff and sweet,
A little yellow flame,
Tiny little thing among the others,
Pecking bits of grit along the ground,
Not a soul he bothers,
Then came along some farmer men,
Checked every one, upside down,
If it were a cock or hen,
Tough luck lille fellar tough luck, your stuck,
With what you got, you live a while,
Than you go in someone’s pot,
Stuck now in a cage so small,
So all day and night he grieved,
Just grew so fat, not ever tall,
Then came the day, it wasn’t long,
Some ruffian came along,
No defence he had, for him he was too strong,
On a chopping block his neck he laid,
To protests laud, and flapping wings,
His neck cut with a blade,
No headstone his remains where blessed,
Not prayers offered of his soul,
His flesh in someone’s body rest,
This was the end of Chicken Little,
No songs were song on his behalf,
He couldn’t talk, or play the fiddle,
No symphonies to honour this short life,
For just a little chick was he,
For egos fame he did not strife,
I thought it proper, honouring lost souls,
That he and million others, remember them in rhyme,
Cause, for them, no church bell ever tolls.
©Jasmin Horst E.P. Seiler
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Georg
How so true, and neither does it for many other creatures we exploit.
and think nothing wrong in doing so. Eileen
It was so very thoughtful of you though to honor the little souls of the chicken.
Just kidding with the barbecue joke