the end of the chickens road
was fleshless, and crushed
the early glutton smiles
at this lightness of being
the relish of thugs
and their heretic doom
is not in goats
nor in any length of wing
the mooring of the tongue
is on a lurid spastic gasp
and as a parasitic wasp
it plaudits an artless sting
we have our vanity
in the rich depth of willful lard
we have our redemption in a
judicious palate and commensality
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