My chicken, Martina, was a great singer,

She clucked through my barn yard with pride,

If you squinted, at dusk, she was a ringer,

For the talented Martina McBride,


One day, Martina had a cough, and I bet

She might have a bad cold,

So, I took her to a homeopathic vet

Who was a strong ninety-six years old,


The vet poked and checked her extremities,

And then said, “I think you’re in luck,”

“If you try all these home remedies,

I think we can restore her cluck!”


“Don’t eat this hen until she gets well,

And if she gets the croup,”

“Give her honey and tea, and I’d tell

You to try chicken soup,”


Martina left ornery and pale,

She huffed, “I refuse ‘chicken’ soup,

And If you plan to eat me, well,

You can eat vile chicken poop!”   😊