I heard about a truck carrying chickens to a processing plant had over turned and since it was close to Christmas I wrote the following. 

Twas the night before Christmas — a fox’s tale


‘T was the night before Christmas, when all through the truck,

Not a chicken was stirring, in a box they were stuck.

The truck, was full loaded, right up to the brim,

With hens that were sorted, fat, medium and thin.


The road it was twisty, in the truck’s glaring light,

And the fox had a plan, that fateful bright night.

His scheme was in motion—as were the hens,

For earlier that day, he’d turned up at their pens.


And through the mesh wire he told them within,

Of his bold rescue plan, through his sly foxy grin

“Please, don’t be afraid alarmed, I’m here as a friend,

For if you’ll not listen, in a stew you will end”


The chickens all blinked, but after a while,

Drew closer to listen to his sweet talk and guile.

He said, they’d be caged, later that day,

Packed on a truck, and be ferried away.


And as they journeyed to that coop in the sky,

Not to be worried, for help was nearby,

And when the truck swerved, at a bend in the road,

To stand on one leg and tip over the load.


Later that night, in the silvery moon’s glow,

The fox he was waiting by that a snowy hedgerow.

Then in the distance a sound filled him with glee,

At the thought of the feast that soon was to be.


When the lights from the truck came over the hill,

His heart skipped a beat, he could scarcely stand still.

So now as he waited, and the time, it drew near,

He readied himself, and crouched with a leer


From the top of the hill, his quarry rolled down

An icy steep road, so far from a town,

He sprang to his task, with a stare that was bright,

At the driver, who swerved, he got such a fright.


The chickens on cue, all played their parts,

And stood on one leg, bless all their hearts.

The truck teeter-tottered and flipped on one side,

And chickens and boxes were spread far and wide


The fox and his friends all circled in tight,

Their moment had come, they howled with delight.

They sprang to their task and as one they all cried,

It’s chicken tonight, boiled, basted or fried

—Anomaly Journals