He came over my house, months back, with his notebooks full of hilarious bullshit. This was a favourite, so we typed it up all pretty on Word. I couldn't get rid of it.


The Ballad of the Irish Death Chicken
The epic poem by Christioher XXXXXX


‘Twas a long time before
The year I was born
That brought a scourge
That plagued the nation.
18 fell when the chicken rode in
And that’s when trouble came.

His beak was long,
His guns ablaze
He set the night on fire.
He killed and killed
Without a sound
And he killed some more.
He fired and shot his guns a lot
And something something . . . . . something.

He left a fortnight later,
Never to be seen again.
Somewhere, sometime, something, someplace,
His legend grows and grows.
And never be caught with your ass in the breeze
When the Irish Chicken shows.