Cheap as a child’s lemonade stand profits.
Smart enough to recognize its owner and
delivers offspring every 24 hours.

Chosen by farmers nine weeks after birth.
Once round like a watermelon, the farmers end the helpless animal’s life.
A quick swing of an axe, the spinal cord servers with a miniscule amount of blood.

Chopped and ready to haul
far and near to it’s place or origin.
A minute batch of them make it to The Pig in Hartland.

Chubby ones habitually bought by my mom.
They demand time in the oven before chowing on them.
Remmi the dog smells the sublime odor and begins to lick her jowls in preparation.

Chalk colored meat adds to the gravy.
Now the stove stands by at full power ready to boil the liquid complement.
At last, the sound of the oven timer.

Chaos is going to take place in my stomach and it protests with a growl.
The steaming pot holds a slight tilt so the luscious meal pours out like a waterfall.
My taste buds scream with joy as the mixture of chicken and gravy is consumed.

Chicken, I love you.