By Richard Wallace
Sunday morning out in the yard,
helping my granddad, working hard,
he was chopping up a chicken,
chopping off its head.
When the head went flying
that chicken sure bled.
***
It started to run and it ran real hard
trying to get away from that barn yard,
going top speed
off it sped
The only thing missing
was its head.
***
I wonder if it knew it didn’t have a head?
I wonder if it knew that it was dead?
With blood on the brain
the brain should know
but how did those feet know
it was time to go?
***
Two legs going just as fast as they can
trying to get away from that crazy man
that man with an axe,
not a time to walk,
but without a head,
it couldn’t squawk.
***
We grabbed that chicken when it ran out of steam.
put it in hot water and picked it clean,
pulled out the pin feathers,
how undignified.
That chicken was naked
but it would look good fried.
***
My sister cried, my mother cried,
my brother threatened to tan my hide
for laughing at the chicken,
that’s what he said.
I couldn’t see the problem,
that chicken was dead.
***
I buried those feathers up on the hill.
Up showed that crafty buzzard Bill
so I said to Bill,
he was flying around,
don’t come around here,
this is sacred ground.
***
I took my lunch, a sandwich or two
Bill asked, “What’s in that sandwich with you?”
I said, “It’s chicken.”
I thought he’d spit.
He said if that’s chicken,
I’m a hip-o-crit.
***
For a chicken memorial I put up a cross.
Bill was flying around and at a loss
to understand my position
on finger lick’en.
He didn’t know the ways
that I loved that chicken.
***
Then buzzard Phil came and said to Bill
there’s a turkey ranch just over the hill.
Let’s blow this dump,
those turkeys are plump.
So they circled once more
and left in a frump.
***
I took my blanket and an old flash light
I stayed by the cross for all that night
so I could save those feathers
from those ugly birds.
Mostly just so I could
have the last word.
***
Next Sunday morning we’ll do it again,
we’ll grab us a chicken from, the pen,
sharpen up that axe,
nothing more to be said,
and one more chicken
will lose it’s head.
***
If a chicken starts oinking
that’s a trick.
Go after that chicken
with a stick,
just do it,
nothing to it.
***
If it starts to go moo
don’t let it fool you.
***
Now you’ve heard the story
of the dead chicken blues.
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