The chicken is
merrily clucking away,
as if she were forever
as if she were dying never
not knowing she’s
a few clucks away
from her doomsday
her transition to somebody’s
dead chicken dinner.
Bob Boyd
My Archived Poetry Blog With 3,750 poems
The chicken is
merrily clucking away,
as if she were forever
as if she were dying never
not knowing she’s
a few clucks away
from her doomsday
her transition to somebody’s
dead chicken dinner.
Bob Boyd