Under the great oak tree  I sat, eye on a tasty morsel of chicken.
Heavenly meat touching my lips, with a face full of bird I prayed,
From the blue a wise old owl flew, and bit the finger I was lickin'.
Winging down to me in Gunpowder St. Park on lovely Chesapeake Bay. 

He screeched, “Before you eat hear ye this tale not oft told,
No mere barnyard story, of the Chesapeake chicken’s fable.”
“Now,” he said politely, “Pay heed for you’ll hear it no more,
About this great bird, now a crab stuffed fillet on your table!”

“For each cluck cluck cluck, 

And every cock-a-doodle-do, 

Is an expressed barnyard joy,

Of avian poetic verses true .”

"According to ancient poultry legend and lore,  

Once these hens were considered so bright, 

'Even smarter than the Raven,’ quoth they, 

Poe’s Baltimore chickens once took flight.” 

“For secretly this lowly bird sees, 

In a genetic display oddly wired, 

Owning deep rich purple dreams, 

Her eyes spy ultraviolet rays afire”.

“In an unlikely fluke of natural selection, 

Bad acid-trip brains, DNA chicken-fried, 

A peck of genomic voodoo her world enchanted, 

On a glowing black-light magic-carpet she rides.” 

Despite my new found respect for the chicken,
I still not knowing if the tale was truth or fable,
That once I simply thought of as the Colonel’s lunch,
Are now golden bites of bliss in a bucket on the table!