Semi-Daily Scribbles

Tough luck, Mr. Cluck. Respect was hard to get after you'd been violated with a bouquet garni. You arrived on a Sunday, cleaned and dressed, and no one cared about your cooped up life. All you ever wanted was to roam the range; have a roost to call your own. It is cruel that dreams are reserved for those who have willingly clipped their wings. The small minds gathered around the platter preferred to discuss scandals as they picked you apart. One hope after another was tossed aside until you were offered as a toy to the yapping menace beneath the table. Promise cut short. What a terrible waste. You, out of all the perma-pressed guests, should have been the very last creature to be called a chicken.