Saturday, January 24, 2009




Now, Binky was a problem chick
Who hatched when the lice were low.
She flopped right out of the nest that night;
Her mom ne'er saw her go.

She managed to grow up free of louse,
A shocking turn of fate,
But got back in the itch of things
From Chip, her lousy mate.

Sometimes, though, when the flock hangs out
And sings of bug and tree,
Binky regales her chirpy pals
With tales they scarce believe.

"There's a way of life -- of lice bereft,"
She tells them, hopelessly,
For most infected in the nest
Think itching's meant to be.

And thus do wild unlikely things
Endure to grip the mind.
Our kids shall have our parasites
And theirs they'll have in kind.

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