A turkey is a thing with feathers
...but there's not much hope in a turkey...
especially around the end of November.
That's just friggin' depressing.
Let's move on.
A chicken is a thing with feathers.
Caged for their eggs,
fattened for the slaughter,
battered and boiled
in hot oil like
Christ's favorite disciple.
No hope in that.
How about a goose?
Long necks and an irritating
honk.
Mean as hell.
Stretch out that damn neck
and come running:
their flat webbed feet
slapping the grass
as they honk and pinch their beak
heading straight for your crotch...
that ain't hope.
Although,
my pillow is stuffed with
goose feathers.
Makes for a comfortable night's sleep.
I mostly dream of hopeful things.
Mostly.
So, the foregone conclusion
from what I've gathered
(I'm forced to eliminate
evil fowls
pinching my nethers)
is this
(rolling in grave is Emily's cadaver):
Hope is a pillow stuffed with goose feathers.
Of Genius and Lunacy, Of Life and Love
I'm either or neither or
none of the above.
A contest entry
- Of Genius and Lunacy, Of Life and Love by The Sage.
1000 points, ended December 17, 2007, 20 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
MITE MEATS MINED.
Comments
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You know...I'm starting to think that you really got into that quote by Dickinson... XD
Also, I would like to amend the comment below you so bestowed upon yourself. This isn't prose.
hah.
Hope you have a good day.
~ts~ -
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eye of the beholder
one man's prose is another man's poetry...stupid humans!
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0.o...interesting....
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Disgusting Crap!
Your complete disregard for the aerial citizens of Earth is appalling. You are a bigot, a racist, and a hater! You should be removed from this community never to return! I am shocked, repulsed, and humiliated by your crass prose. Go to hell!
Franklin McFowl
Chaiperson
Senior Chickens of America
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