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.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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