A Fraught Fowl Fable

Winner, winner, chicken dinner,
poor old Chuck is not a grinner,
destined for the pot to simmer,
feels the horror rising in her.

Old McDonald’s her tough boss,
Chuck stopped laying, made him cross,
wife’s preparing white wine sauce
while he axe-wields to cull the dross.

Chuck gets hunting for a plan,
sets off clucking ‘bout the man,
ruffles feathers, takes the stand,
calls to arms her squawking clan.

Mrs McDonald hears the knock,
takes her leave of boiling stock,
opens door to fearsome Chuck
and fowl troops wielding rocks.

The hen uprising’s short but sweet,
birds peck bloody the woman’s feet,
they hunt McDonald through the streets,
toss rocks upon him ‘til he’s beat.

Chuck provides the final blow,
pecks at his neck and through the bone,
then sips on Pinot Grigio
as farmer’s head boils on the stove.

Images from Unsplash by:

Ellie Scott