Long Chicken feed Poems
Long Chicken feed Poems. Below are the most popular long Chicken feed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chicken feed poems by poem length and keyword.
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
Talk to me you losers,
am I being sent to Coventry,
I need more adulation,
lip service on tap, so damn hungry,
Living off my work, lap dogs
you bite the hand that feeds,
I want my daily dose,
of granulated egotistic seed,
O please talk to me,
your silence is a torment,
Like dying slowly in my
quick drying cement,
All alone on my own,
got a signal on the phone,
Ring you bastards of mute,
Why me I should’ve known,
Under the train I’ve been thrown,
In bits on the tracks,
left dead amongst stones,
Well it’s just not good enough,
I’ll buy new friends
Sick of you anyway,
was all just pretend,
Yes I’ve got money just
gonna spend, spend, spend,
Always cheers me up,
I’d highly recommend,
Now sycophants are
knocking on my door,
Lick that crap off my boots,
cheap little whores,
Dance you swine,
while I scratch my golf balls,
Ha ha this is great,
better than any phone calls,
So now take that, imaginary
no good chicken feed,
I’m a man, of influence,
my heart doesn’t bleed,
What’s that I hear, your loaded,
but have no real power,
Hmm quite true,
I do live in an ivory tower.
Fed up again,
would be better if I was king,
Could control the hoard,
carry much more sting,
A whole empire below me,
quaking in their boots,
Unlimited peasants to harass,
guaranteed salutes,
No matter how thick the mud,
it would never stick,
The almighty grandiose,
mayor of slick,
What the, don’t ring me now,
damn my poem is stumped,
Anyway I became POTUS
the name is Donald Trump.
By
David Kavanagh
POTUS = Person Of Totally Unfiltered Smug
If Joe Biden is our only hope,
Where do we go from here.
You know where he's at
He been in Gotham,
Whole city lit,
He grew and blossomed.
What he touches, he flips,
Moves with caution,
Always asks if you good
Load up attachment.
Map in his hands,
Survives in the woods,
Light up a match
He’s good in the hood.
Hustle forever, forever he should,
Walked through a path
With booby traps like the Goonies would.
He grew up a man,
Can’t leave the trap,
Needs a bag,
Pillowcases with chicken feed in the lab.
Standing on business,
It’s buried in the back,
Delivers the mail
On a mission
Tunnels and trenches,
Benches stay cold,
Carries the heat
Like a thermal
He don’t bend, don’t fold,
Can’t stay consistent at home.
I’m the Joker
Can’t be controlled.
The turkey's on
Old man Johnson's farm
All wised up this year
Logging on
To Amazon
About mid November
With Halloween out of the way
They were bound to save
On the items they would need
Which worked out great
Cause all they could afford to pay
Was in scratched up chicken feed
The pigs helped in
The ordering
As it's a well known fact
That being turkey's
They're always in a hurry
And ain't nobody got time for that
They saved up extra seed
For quick delivery
When you're on the cliffs edge dancing
Coming down to it
This being life or death
There's no need to take chances
In the nick of time
The package arrived
On the day required
The fateful day
Known to our hero's as shake and bake
November 23rd
On that morning when
Old man Johnson then
With ax in hand stepped outside
Where he tried to think
Had he ever seen
So many cows in his life
In between the moo's
He heard a gobble or two
Which in itself is very strange
Plus the Amazon bill
For umpteenth costume cows
He just can't quite explain
The turkey's on
Old man Johnson's farm
All wised up this year
Logging on
To Amazon
About mid November
With Halloween out of the way
They were bound to save
On the items they would need
Which worked out great
Cause all they could afford to pay
Was in scratched up chicken feed
The pigs helped in
The ordering
As it's a well known fact
That being turkey's
They're always in a hurry
And ain't nobody got time for that
They saved up extra seed
For quick delivery
When you're on the cliffs edge dancing
Coming down to it
This being life or death
There's no need to take chances
In the nick of time
The package arrived
On the day before
The fateful day
Known to our hero's as shake and bake
November 24th
On that morning when
Old man Johnson then
With ax in hand stepped outside
Where he tried to think
Had he ever seen
So many cows in his life
In between the moo's
He heard a gobble or two
Which in itself is very strange
Plus the Amazon bill
For umpteenth costume cows
He just can't quite explain
There's a quaint little cross roads town that nestles in the shadow,
Of majestic Pikes Peak called Punkin Center in eastern Colorado.
The prime business in town is the Punkin Center Tack and Feed Store,
Where farmers and ranchers congregate to shoot the bull and more!
There you'll find fellers in bib overalls and John Deere tractor caps,
Cowboy hats, scruffy boots, faded jeans and greasy leather chaps.
Some spit streams of terbaccy juice - others enjoy roll-yer-own smokes,
And the air is rant with guffaws as they ply each other with bawdy jokes!
There are Ford 150, Dodge Ram and Chevy Silverado pickups galore,
Waitin' for their owners to load up on this and that from the store.
But they ain't in no hurry - besides it looks like a norther is on the way.
The Punkin Center Tack and Feed Store is a great place to idle time away!
Clyde Purpleears, the owner, stocks plentiful supplies for those in need:
Fertilizer, saddles, bales of hay, manure forks, hog and chicken feed,
Baler twine, hip boots for muckin' out the barn as well as various seeds,
Milk buckets, lariat rope, gloves, shotgun shells and stuff for killin' weeds!
Clyde displays the latest in coyote traps, steel posts and barbed wires,
Nose rings for randy bulls, post hole diggers and John Deere tractor tires!
As the shadow of Pikes Peak creeps over Punkin Center 'bout half past four,
Clyde shoos the loafers out of the Tack and Feed store and closes the door!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Drone
little specs down below
watch them scurry to and fro
streams of white and red
filling an ocean at my behest
with broken backs and crooked limbs
their hurried toils
are the subject of my whims
in my lands there is no rest
a slow decay, day by day
their bones will feed my nest
while in the ground they rot away
I'm master of fates
a thousand levers, my machine
safe in the shadows of fame
watching on from up on high
my belly full, my mouth never dry
with icy condescension
I hatch designs beyond comprehension
get them suited, get them booted
toughened by steel, broken by greed
for their hardened skin, their rotten toenails
I raise my glass to their travails
My glance a morbid curiosity
at their scurrying toil to bend the knee
exchanging lies by my design
pinned to a board, I pull their wings
my malice is refined, my face dignified
torn apart, they cannot sting
their lives are but fleeting dreams
Some burn like tigers
caged in glass
flickering with fervent purpose
until their future's passed
up and down the way they work
fighting their way along the curb
fusing their greed and need
working the line for chicken feed
with broken backs and crooked limbs
their hurried toils
are the subject of my whims
in my lands there is no rest
a slow decay, day by day
their bones will feed my nest
while in the ground they rot away
little specs down below
watch them turn to ash and bones
jump a mile
plunge headlong
you'll never leave
where you belong
What if I told you things aren't
what they used to be.
What if I told you clichés
are not always "for the birds"
That the Clichés cling for
a reason and have clung long.
Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Smoked lunch meat and cheese
Did you eat that, digest that?
What if I told you cheese is plastic
And ain't what it used to be?
And chicken feed ain't, flies and grain
But Plastic and GMO corn instead.
Don't feed the pigeons, says the sign.
But we don't eat the pigeons here.
So we feed them, and they eat
bits of truth that we now turn down,
Pigeons fly around downtown,
Without true food, without the truth.
Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Peanut butter and Bananas?
Pigeons spread disease in excrement
With bits of nontruth, splattered all over;
Making a point about the truth the whole truth
and nothing but the moot truth “So help you, Hanna"?
Cliché' may be our only reality, because little truths
matter, relevance should never be Obsolete.
Big or small, the truth must massively
Combust into big explosions of honesty.
If you should turn your back on truth
You will be face to face with a lie.
The truth needs to matter again
Or nothing else will.
The turkey's on
Old man Johnson's farm
All wised up this year
Logging on
To Amazon
About mid November
With Halloween out of the way
They were bound to save
On the items they would need
Which worked out great
Cause all they could afford to pay
Was in scratched up chicken feed
The pigs helped in
The ordering
As it's a well known fact
That being turkey's
They're always in a hurry
And ain't nobody got time for that
They saved up extra seed
For quick delivery
When you're on the cliffs edge dancing
Coming down to it
This being life or death
There's no need to take chances
In the nick of time
The package arrived
On the day required
The fateful day
Known to our hero's as shake and bake
November 23rd
On that morning when
Old man Johnson then
With ax in hand stepped outside
Where he tried to think
Had he ever seen
So many cows in his life
In between the moo's
He heard a gobble or two
Which in itself is very strange
Plus the Amazon bill
For umpteenth costume cows
He just can't quite explain
Pink and My Buster Browns
My egg hatched north of the border, Pink is my name
I come from a proud line of egg- layers, poaching is my game
I’ve walked a mile of desert, crossing the Texas sand
I’m here to dip my spurs into the waters of the Rio Grande
I’ve come to quench a rumor that started on the Mexico side
A dandy there’s been crowing and winking his beady eyes
He’s got his reputation alright, he earned it long ago
But he hadn’t met this Road Island Red, squatting here in Mexico
They say he’s a genuine fighting Cock and fast with spur or wing
He’s been strutting with the egg-layers and pecking their chicken feed
He’s scratching around in Laredo, I hear it’s the common belief
Even crowing for the pullets, a double dealing chicken thief
I strut into the fouling yard, my eyes shifting around
I’ve come to pluck a chicken “A new rooster’s in town
The yard is quite and still, not a cackle can be heard
There’s no room in this chicken yard for another crowing bird
I see him fly from the roost and land heavy on the ground
He struts in small circles, as he side-eyes me up and down
The time is high noon and we're standing beak to beak
I look at that blood red comb and my legs start getting weak
His feathers ruffles on his neck, his spurs are gleaming white
His wings hang loose and ready, my heart’s not beating right
My beak starts to pucker in the shape of a pout
I’m flogging it back to Texas, I done chickened out
When I was ten years old I was given a little pink chicken for buying a pair
of Buster Brown Shoes for Easter. Even though everything was against him he lived and grew up to be a mean Road Island Red Rooster. He took
great pleasure in flogging all he could reach even to the point of devising a little trick by tossing a pebble into the air and running to fetch it in order to close the distance to make a strike. My Grandpa was always threatening to blow his head off. He finally jumped a dog over a watermelon rime and was dispatched.
Here’s to Pink, the Road Island Red Rooster