I was after something finger lickin’
Maybe a crispy roasted chicken?
Alas, how deep was my despair
To find that all the shelves were bare.
Neither bird nor feather remained in sight
They’d all been plucked and taken flight.
But there I spy in a corner,
A sole bird the crowd rejected.
Fine wine tonight to toast
The last of that feathered flock
My sad little spatchcock.