Be it what it may be

Just what it is!

Salvation beads permeate the soil of unleavened cucumber bread

At precisely half past two hens and a cross-eyed cluck.

Who by no fault of its own, shivered

At the exact moment in space time that the sun’s solar flare

Chastised the moon’s mode of dress and made it confess

That the cluck really was a duck in sheep’s clothing

That had been pre-sorted and dry cleaned on the 6^th of November in 1962.

 

However incongruous with the herd’s need for feathers,

The sun felt liberated enough to fluff the down into a pile of ashes

So to drift with the wind of sin and other such nonsense

For nine seconds before it got sucked up

Into the belly of a near-Earth whale-marmot

Wearing purple fuzzy pajamas.

 

The hens ran like the Dickens lovers they really were

So to save the harlot’s books before they became classics

By way of a make out session with a Ford McPeanut.

 

So after all was said and done and Earth stopped spinning

The opium loving geese decided to fly South for the end of days

Just to get front row seats, only to be chosen as honorary speakers

At the fowl roasting convention. “Turkey’s,” They cried!

 

We won’t even go into that pickled rabbit,

Who came in on the 509 streamliner

Just to flaunt his ten pound see through carrot.