For Parents: this is a super silly story about a giant talking chicken, but some younger readers might find it scary. You may wish to have a quick peek first.

Kentucky Fried Children

On a farm in West Kentucky,
Lived a smart and rather plucky,
Gigantic, speckled farmyard hen,
Who measured in at six foot ten.
This was no ordinary bird,
Her intellect was quite absurd.
She read one thousand books a day,
And locals, there, would often say,
“This hen is ludicrously smart,
Her IQ score is off the chart.”

It was so clearly plain to see,
—And nobody would disagree—
She had, without a single doubt,
Phenomenal amounts of clout.
To look at her, you’d think that she,
Was happy as a bird could be,
But deep inside a fury burned,
Ever since the time she learned,
Her carefree days were all but done,
And soon she’d end up in a bun,
Alongside mayonnaisey gunk,
And other slimey, greasy junk,
Then processed, paper-wrapped and sold,
On discount to a ten year old.

She thought, “This really cannot be,
The way that things shall end for me.
It drives me absolutely wild,
To think I’d end up in a child.
And selling me for fifty cents,
Quite frankly makes me take offense!
I will devise a cunning plan,
To dodge that wretched frying pan,
And seek revenge on little chops,
That scoff at fast food chicken shops.
Those nasty girls and boys that munch,
Upon my tender meat for lunch.”
She mulled it over night and day,
And then, at last, she cried, “Hooray!
Now that I have thought this through,
I know exactly what to do.
I’ll start a brand new chicken shop,
But every bit of meat I’ll swap.”
She paused a moment, then she smiled,
“For tender juicy bits of child.

I think I’ll wait until..” she said,
“The little blighters are in bed,
Then snatch the greasy, stinky tots,
And fry them in my cooking pots.
I must, of course, remove the hair,
Apply my secret crispy layer,
And serve them in a bucket to,
My ever faithful farmyard crew.

Then when,” she cried, “they are the meal,
They’ll understand just how we feel!”

The End