The Ramifications of Chicken Plantations

Whenceforth kind Chickabun dost proclaim,
Thy Chicken Plantation is not a game
Sir Edmond Pleabus the III, Esquire
Braved through water, wind and fire
Volleyed thunder, ferried fjord
All hailed him in the year of our Lord
Broke through fences, burned down peasants
Slaughtered dragons, pissed on pheasants
To save the Chickens from plantations
Whilst crippling their masters' evil nations
And carried kind Chickabun far and wide
Across the seas, to her bride
A Tupperware bowl in Newport Beach
For which a Deen Bean mouth dost beseech
And such is the mouth of a hungry man
Which grew so tired of Raisin Bran
Tomatoes, beans, all treasures included
Not one cupboard left unlooted
A happy meal of Chickadeal and joyful song,
Chickabun won approval of Ding Dong
No more plantations, No more travesty
Just deals for our meals, such glorious majesty

Chicken Basketry
(The art of making Baskets from Chicken Raquets) Jackets.
Whackits.

Hot Bacon Love

There was a lil guy named Bun. The irony was that Bun thought he was a Bun. You see, his parents were cruel, worthless fatsacks that decided to trick Bun into thinking he was a Bun by naming him Bun. In actuality, he was Bacon.

You can imagine his surprise when his parents threw him into a hot, oily pan on the stove. Slapjacks and cookie racks! That’s a hot bitch!

But how do you differentiate hotness from literal hotness? Bun thought his life had culminated into nothing more than an ill-named slice of pork, sizzling in a million degree pan, splitting apart his fatty lipid bilayers.

To the human eyes, however, Bun was hot – not physically hot. Well I suppose physically hot, but more along the lines of hot love. Who doesn’t lick their lips when they smell the aroma of Bun on a pan? That, my friends, is hot bacon love.

Can we get some hot bacon love up in here?