Sonnet On Poultry MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   They are feathered and fat

Poor flightless souls

They know not where it's at

They just sit and peck in their bowls

They produce many eggs

All day they sit a-makin'

So we lift up their legs

And fry their offspring with bacon

Their squawking can be heard all day

Their clucking throughout the night

For them to escape there is no way

To a passing cat the''re a tasty delight

So treat them good, and whatever you do

Keep them away from Frank Perdue.





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