Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.



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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.
Copyright © 2024 Constance Gilmore. All Rights Reserved

Book: Shattered Sighs