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Chicken Foot


The hut with chicken feet careering through the tangled wood—it's so old-fashioned it's dead. The feet we salvaged, nothing wrong with that good old magic out of a big-bellied iron pot. Plenty of years left in the feet. Bring it on home to me, as the man says in the song, but you are riding high up in your tree house that's not really a tree house for it's not really on a tree, it's on four chicken feet. And are they the feet of two perfectly matched chickens, like fowl coursers, racing neck and neck the whole entire way, or maybe are they just what she had running around? Two are right and two are left, sure enough, and they can really move when there's a need. You never come to see me anymore, living out in the twisted wood with your white sidewall chicken feet and your satellite dish. And you're never home, though you never leave the house. But I bought me a brace of chickens, and I cooked 'em up real nice and tasty. But I didn't cook the feet. Yep, I've brewed up my own brand-new magic on my gas range, and made some high-stepping rascals for my truck. I think I'll save on gasoline and tires, but more importantly I figure it takes a thief to catch one. Cock-a-doodle-do, baby, I'm a comin' for you.