The Chicken

Chicken! Chicken! You must be
E-vol-u-ti-on-ar-y.
What architect would claim to see
Grace, in such iniquity?

Where! In whose fowl intellect
Lurked the twitching of thy neck?
In which bower did idea grow
To frame the clucking and the crow?

And on which computer’s screen
Were wings made, but fit to preen?
 And when thy wings began to beat;
Such a squawking, flapping feat.
Did he hope that you would fly
Way, way up beyond the sky? 

He could not smile; no work to see
For that which made the slug made thee.
Formed in nature’s  pottery,
Resulting from a lottery.

Chicken! Chicken! You must be
A mish mash of heredity.
No immortal hand or eye
Would frame such frightful form.