A Cockerel Mayhem, Or Bad Chicken Farmer Joe

When his father-in-law got him into the poultry biz in Rhode Island Joe had not fully contemplated that first day to market when he when he failed to truss and bag the birds properly, a holy-moly cock-up so when he tossed them into his ’02 Honda Accord LX to parlay the beasties down 95 South RI, they managed to wriggle free the chickens did, got loose from the burlap sack the chickens did, flapping anarchy, and mayhem, and bad policy about the Aught-Deux’s upscale cabin, the mad bastard capons pocking fine leatherette and Boze while Bad Chicken Farmer Joe flailed away, fowl and feathers, feathers and fowl flailing, clawing, at the faux cherry wheel, finally rip-cording his failed way down exit 8A for Quonset Point, where, at the light, the cross-walkers froze glaciating, mightily at the cockerel mayhem unraveling inside a popular Midclass Sedan.