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Poor Chicken

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Below is the poem entitled Poor Chicken which was written by poet Constance Gilmore. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Poor Chicken

What came first, the chicken or the egg?
 The answer is still relatively unknown.
 Which tastes better, the egg or the chicken?
 It depends on the person, so really, who knows?
 Little baby chickens taken from mother hens
 Still wrapped in their little hardened cocoons,
 Ignorant to the fact that they are about to die
 Slaughtered by plastic forks and silver spoons.
 Ol’ poor little unhatched chicken embryos
 Bet you didn’t know you’d end up on my plate.
 Your parents procreated and made such tasty treats.
 Sorry lil’ chickies, you shouldn’t taste so great.
 You are so multitalented, you come in many forms:
 Hardboiled, poached, over easy, eggs benedict,
 An egg salad, an omelet, or have you sunny side up,
 Maybe even scrambled for something really quick.
 You get me going for the day with you for breakfast;
 Have you in the morning to provide my body fuel.
 I apologize for eating you before you were able to live.
 I sincerely don’t mean to be thoughtless and cruel.
 If we should place the blame, it should go to your parents,
 To that loud, cocky rooster and that little red hen.
 Your taste pales in comparison to the both of them
 Because I can eat them over and over and over again.
 Sometimes they live long, sometimes they don’t.
 Either way, they taste awesome on my plate.
 Barbecued, grilled, fried, or on a stick
 Boiled, rotisserie, roasted, or baked.
 Either way, little chicken, you were born to die
 And unfortunately, that is your earthly fate.
 Take pleasure in the fact that you are enjoyed
 And that my stomach is your final resting place. 

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