Brittle and broken to the Highway of Leach
The pallets of dead chicens come;
At night they squawk and shine above the chunder,
But morning sees them struck dumb.
After the night-clubbing custom of the drive-thru
A team member, going forward, has time for this,
To pluck them from the heights, unplug them,
And drape the wire around their nakedness;
And each bird, having been a salty and fatty siren,
Bears the last graffiti of heart-diseas’d men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin –
‘What you lookin’ at cunt?’ – the stolen Texta
Wavers and fades, the urine drips,
The bile of late night has washed their inscriptions,
On their utes they have dropped their chips.
Chicen or rooster, searching for the same landfill,
Whether as competitors they fought,
Or together battl’d the Arches; the tip joins them together,
Dead on an eastern front.
The Worst of Perth 
Where’s River Rooster? I see that cunt’s claws all over this situation.
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or perhaps …
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Just a patsy. This has got Mighty Cockerel written all over it.
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Greenwood or Yokine?
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I was too slow to get this diorama of avian distress. Glad someone captured it for the fuschia cunts.
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Gotta point the Freo Herald editors towards these. Y’know, for those times they wish to append dot points to banners or signage.
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Bird flu?
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Amid all the mowin’ on Sabbath day flow’n
By gentlest lowin’ on Easterly blow’n
I came to aknowin’ all’s reaped what’s sow’n
And not by the crowin’ of good rhymer Cohen
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A true ANZAC tale, I shed a tear.
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