going off to battle, on the march,
a brave helmet chicken
struggling against the daunting odds
of those medieval dinnertime foes.
with a plume in his helmet,
casting all fears aside
he nears the mournful site
where he is soon to fight.
he stands on his plate;
his enemies approach from all sides.
the knife, the fork,
that spoon in the distance
all menace him with
their shining brilliance.
the knife's offensive
is a crippling blow that pierces
the skin of the helmet chicken.
the devastating aftermath -
stuffing strewn upon the plate,
the tender pieces of meat -
all left for the spoon to clean up.