Chicken Stouffer

I am a son of a vintner.

Disinherited,
Disinfrancised,
brooding,

I contemplate silver light,
cheerful flights of fancy,
bushels of rye seed,
oft, I welcome merriment,
clamouring bells,
and lavish tickling
fests in closed quarters.

Exhuberantly chronicling
my ventures
by darkling night,
I incite reason in this providence,
brew bitter brew,
as I wander to the Horse stables,
I pen the chronicles in pinched pain,
freeing horse explicatives
too near horse hoof,
trippingly in tongue 'til morrow
long to pen
The Philosophy of Fowls