O chicken, my chicken. Pale orange eye.
Black feathers threaded with blue,
Last Tuesday your mortal coil shuffled off
Though plenty late, it felt too soon.
You laid your blue eggs during George Bush’s war
Always one year behind our Coen.
Two presidents later, you’re tired, you’re worn,
We were sorry to see you were goin’.
One tough old broad, the boss of the coop,
Head cocked to the side, ascertaining,
I know hope is a thing with feathers,
When I buried you, it had stopped raining.