I’m going to buy some chickens
down in Chinatown.
On Kneeland Street, you hear them bleat,
their entrails on the ground.
They’re disemboweled daily.
The pigeons have a feast.
It seems an end, alas, my friend,
too foul for even beast.
But people need their chicken,
like people need their bread.
When I buy two, old Mister Woo
says, "With or without head?"
He’ll chop those heads off for you,
but I still take them home.
I decorate faux reprobate,
in early chickendome.