The Writings Of Wolf Tracks

This page gets to start over in a more twisted fashion.

This exists because I had to bag eighty pounds of half-frozen raw chicken backs for the dogs this morning, in case anyone was wondering.

Give A Chicken A Typewriter

 My life in cramped pens 
 Very shortly does end
 In a processing plant
 Then the rendering begins.

 My liver, combined
 With more of it's kind
 Then packaged in plastic.
 Fantastic design!

 A Buck Fifty-Five's
 What's charged for my thighs.
 Stewed in chicken and dumplings
 Or forever deep-fried.

 My breast, lightly oiled,
 Can be roasted or broiled
 And when pounded quite thin,
 Will tempt even the spoiled.

 Buffalo wings,
 Despicable things!
 The carnivores drool
 As the microwave dings.

 Some like to eat
 My gizzard and feet.
 A little bit chewy,
 But cheaper than meat.

 McDonald's will bound
 For the parts less renowned.
 Breaded and fried until
 Crispily browned.

 All that survives
 (My beak, feathers, eyes),
 Processed to paste.
 A doggy surprise!

 My blood's in a slurry
 For those in a hurry.
 A quick protein fix
 For the hided and furry.

 Maybe they, too, someday
 Will be eaten this way.
 Fat lot of good it does me.

• Dear! It's brilliant! Mari, a little queasy...