once lived a man who called himself mayne
he tried cooking chicken, but everyone complained
told him they were starving but he didn't want to hear
as he sat quite happily, drinking his beer
nice!
here is the mayne slam poetry version
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you say, "yes i'd like some chicken",
but i what i hear is
"i CONTROL you.
i CAJOLE you
with my petty passing barbs of flattery
to do something beneath me,
for me,
because i'm too powerful
and too pathetic
and too lazy."
inside i tell myself you don't own me,
you don't control me,
but decades of living like you do
forces me to make chicken for you,
and i hate every minute of it.
and i hate myself.
and i pour my hate into the chicken itself.
i simmer and stew and as i do
the chicken cooks too,
but i reach my boiling far before
the chicken is safe to eat.
i dont care, i dont CARE.
as i cut the chicken i think of cutting you,
of cutting myself,
so i do. the blood
from my finger pours into the chicken,
literally,
just as my blood has figuratively poured out
for your hateful abuse
of me.
SLAM onto the plate the chicken goes,
SLAM through the door into the living room,
SLAM goes the plate on your fat waiting stomach,
as i release the pain that has built up inside:
"EAT THIS CHICKEN S*** AND DIE!"
i stand, trembling, sweating, bleeding
as you simply shake your head and take a bite.
"it's cold."
yes, it's cold. it is cold like your
pathetic, frozen heart
that was passed down to you
by thousands of years of
pathetic, powerful parents.
still shaking, i take the plate
and silverware and barely-eaten meal.
how did i not stab you?
HOW DID I NOT STAB YOU?
i leave the room and,
well beyond the point of enough,
throw the chicken in sink,
grab a beer,
and go drink.
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