Poem/Fried Chicken

                                      Fried Chicken/ Author Thomas J.Flanagan

                Twas at the Regency Hyatt,where gathered saint & sinner,
               and I sat me down before a bubling chicken dinner.
           The hips were filled with gravy & he was rich & brown
         Fellows with knife & fingers were simply going to town.;
          while I was hungry fellers,as a bitch wolf at a kill,
         In normal time my stomach was usually hard to fill
        but in spite of that spreading.I pushed my dish aside,
      Because I was thinking of how that poor fellow died.
      Now the regency Hyatt served the cream of all  the eats.
       And this was top hap service where the big shots retreat
       The chicken upside down with a big fork in his breast,
     and cool & quiet forever-he was laid to rest.
        I caught chickens for my mother,when the preacher came around,
       I have seen her wring their neck piece & fling them on the ground.
      With no head on they fluttered & trembled til they died,
      O what an humble citizens ,born & reared and fried.


 this is high roller signing off until next  poem or letter.Peace