A Hen-pecked Poem

Point of Inspiration Chicken/Cock

Chickens Were Once Chicks

Chickens have wings but don’t fly.

Chicks are baby chickens.

Chicks are small, soft, and make a gentle peeping sound

And are found in Easter baskets wearing

baby colors; powder blue, pink, yellow and green.

Chickens are domesticated and designed for consumption,

often cultivated with large breasts and small brains.

(He’s a thigh man. I like breasts.)

Chickens cross the road, chicks follow and flatten.

Do you want to play chicken? It’s game where

we drive toward each other at high speed,

the one who wants to survive the most? What a chicken!

Chicken soup, a healing broth,

Chicken Soup for the Soul, a sweet comforting story,

A chick flick, movies made for girls with predictable plot lines,

paint-by-number characters, mostly pink.

Chick lit, not solely romantic, empowering

Jane Austin and Bridget Jones.

And Hen Lit, matrons wearing red hats

and hot flashes. We're no spring chickens!

Chicken Little?   

Walking around like a chicken with her head cut off!

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

Crazy chick disease, it’s a softening of the brain.

Chick magnet/chicken coop

Many chickens but only one

Cock, a member reference, substantial,

Cock-a-doodle-do!

He’s no chicken, nor is he a chick.

Chick, an American slang term for a young girl.

Cynthia Pittmann


Audio Recording  (Does the recording play on your computer?)

Published on Oasis Writing Link as a Magpie