Photo by S. AuberleYes, I know these are turkeys, but they are poultry, though this is a chicken poem. I don't think they'll mind.
One lovely morning
as I was dining on Eggs Benedict,
a friend stopped by my table to ask
how's the poetry business?
I heard how's the poultry business?
After wondering if a hearing aid
might be in my future,
I got to thinking about this and decided
chickens might actually be better.
The pay is more.
You never need an alarm to wake you.
You can always eat your mistakes.
Rhode Island Reds are quite lovely
to look at, and chickens make you laugh.
Poetry, on the other hand,
pays next to nothing,
keeps you up all night,
and poets hate to eat their words.
Rarely do poems make you laugh,
mostly you curse and cry--oh why,
oh me oh my.
Sometimes I think I'll try
to change this state of affairs,
but most of the time, not
and that's because I am, you see