Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck

On the road’s a hen.
Can’t wait to learn why, on the road again
life might be snuffed and come to a feathery end.
And I can’t wait to get off the road that hen.

Gonna roast that hen;
gonna baste it with some gin, and then
gonna treat it as if it were from a pen,
even though it was on the road for days ten.

Kinda gross, that hen—
kinda flat and ripped, see: was ground into the highway
where it met its end.
It’s gritty, a pity, so I’ll have to go the scour way.

Ere I roast that hen,
I’ll de-gravel it, then I’ll have a yen
for it for lunch; it will be groovy to dig in.
Then I will taste of that fresh-cleansed roadkill hen.

Time to roast that hen. . .
mined the sand and grit free that ground in from the highway
where it met its end.
Not gritty, looks pretty. Now it’s time to go the chow way.

So I stowed that hen.
It was great, that slow-roasted roadkill hen.
And per my hunch: didn’t get too sick—no amends
I’d tempted fate by eating that roadkill hen.