Chickens

it was early. chickens were in the street. a detective was at the door, oh my. i crawled to the window one thousand stories old. looking out, i saw specks of tiny color moving this way and that in apparent abandonment. here and ther were forest animals raising hell with a minister from the palace. a wedding was in progress. no plains or mountains couls be seen. a beautiful blond playing i've lost mu pussy entered and just as abruptly left the green-gold pulsating chamber. a blue rat as big as alaska floated by on a raft and i began to disappear.

Connect chickens to writing through their feathers which were once used to make quills.

Another shazam fact to amaze your friends: Some dinosaurs were smaller than chickens.

My friend lives in the basement apartment of two chicken raising lesbians. One of the chickens slowly developed the features of a Rooster. After research and an e-mail to one of the leading Poulty scientists of America, they learned their chicken's gender transgression had been caused by an ovarian cyst.

The chicken in question was consequently dubbed »Chooster,« as an allusion to the animal's non-gender-identifying status.

my aunt said when the world is coming to it's end, she will have tended chickens. And she'll go through the streets screaming »I've got the Chickens!« (of course, she'd have eggs and stuff like that too.)

Chickens drift around with no souls. She says I will not eat chicken, they have souls. Tell that to Tyson.

After you've set your chickens free, you should join up with the garden gnome liberation front.

Imagine a poem in which a chicken continually interrupts the democratic process.
An unspeakable chicken.
The chicken of our bad dream.
The one we woke up from, our mouths dry...