A Message From Your Local Poultry Council

On my way home yesterday from dropping my issue off at what she affectionately calls Nerd Camp, the following ribaldry suggested itself, to the tune of Whiting's Ain't We Got Fun?:

Every mornin',
Every evenin'
Eat chicken pie!
It's a ritual;
Something which you'll
Be wise to try.

There's nothing moister,
The poets have sung;
So serve that oyster
With plenty of tongue!

Certain fellas
Go for breast meat;
Well, so do I.
I can dig it.
But the best meat
Is near the thigh.

It might surprise her—
The entrée coming with the appetizer.
Understood, boy?
Be a good boy
And eat your pie!

[Return to last eight bars for:]

Try cunnilingus
To tintinnabulate her ring-ding-dingus.
She will wig out,
If you pig out
On chicken pie.

[And for the big finish:]

Here's the lowdown:
Better go down
And eat your pie!
(My, my!)

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I hope that my faithful public know that the two lumps of meat nestled behind the pelvis of a chicken are called the oysters. I mention this, only because I've met some otherwise educated persons who are unacquainted with the term.

I'm unhappy about referring to the subject of the song in haec verba, but I'm all but married to the euphony of tintinnabulate her ring-ding-dingus; and, so far, I've been unable to make any sense of the alternative phrase, honey-wing us.