The chicken’s been eaten,
he’s beside me now.
We’re friends and I’m thankful;
thank-you mother for not stepping on his egg,
thank-you baby for growing without feathers,
your flesh was blue and your grease so good,
my hair’s thick with it.
I’m no longer nearly American,
no longer love-lorn.
I’m proud, a member
of the great chicken nation,
clucking towards eternity
with all of my little brothers;
when dawn comes
we’ll wake up the world.
[It’s said that a Mr. Donald Tyson raised chickens in Arkansas in such numbers that most people in the state worked for him. It is also thought that he was proven, materially, to be a good friend of the president. Thus his chickens for awhile were roosting nicely, but seasons change and the Gods must also be appeased. Therefore a prayer.]