The Chicken Splash

Awake, ye sleepy, coop-bound souls! Unbutton your boredom, unfasten your goals! For glory’s not found in the stiff upper sash— It lives in the squelch of the Chicken Splash. With feathers all fluffed like a powdered wig, She struts like a duchess who’s learned how to jig. A dip of the beak, a dramatic small sneeze— Then ker-splash! She dives in with elegance and ease. No need for a ballroom or velvet-toned glee, She’s a duchess of dirt, and she’s waltzing with glee. Each puddle’s a portal, a glittering gate, To a world where the serious show up too late. She twirls through the mud with flippant finesse, In a gown of good humour and splatter-spun dress. Each droplet’s a diamond, each slosh is a cheer— An anthem of nonsense the wise long to hear. It’s not just a dance, it’s a radical creed, A declaration of joy over sensible speed. Why march through your life with a stiff, tidy plan, When a squishy detour says more than a man? The cows may look on with a snobbish moo, But what have they done that was daring or new? The hens, though—they giggle, they copy, they dash, They’ve all found their truth in the Chicken Splash. A duck may protest, “But we’re made for the wet!” She replies with a wink, “Ah, but we have regret!” For puddles, you see, aren’t just soggy terrain— They’re places where boredom is washed down the drain. She leaps like a question that’s yet to be asked, With purpose disguised in the goofily masked. She’s Plato in wellies, she’s Nietzsche in fluff, She’s telling the cosmos, enough is enough! So scribble your worries, then crumple the sheet— Come paddle with passion, get mud on your feet. For life isn’t tidy, nor meant to be brash— It’s a puddle of promise, a Chicken Splash! And when you grow old, with your spectacles tight, And you tell little stories by soft firelight, Don’t boast of your trophies or accounts full of cash— Tell them, “Once, I dared do the Chicken Splash.”