Pan-fried fluffy goodness that smells so bad
it’ll tempt a blind skunk to mate in a trashcan.
Chopped and diced and sliced with hands so mad
they’d kill the stench of rotten Marzipan.
Take your fork from the pages of the Iliad
and storm Troy with troops of the Ku Klux Klan.
That doesn’t make any sense on the written pad
of sane breakfast eaters who stuff their face with Raisin Bran.
Dried fruit in a bowl don’t pass grade for the sad,
nor for the angry cracked shells of dreary Iran.
And don’t expect much from the frozen cocks of Leningrad
who curse hens in coops of blessed wire from the Qur’an,
dancing and fu**ing in the quiet streets of Baghdad
singing “C*ck-a-doodle-who?” as their heads fall into the pan.
But don’t let it fall onto my plate in the slightest tad,
for I eat pure grade crap from neighbor McMahon.