Eatin' Chicken

This bein’ on the road, you know, is really pretty swell.

People take good care of you and try to treat you well.

They’ll even fix a meal for you to help you play and sing

But, every night in every town, they fix the same old thing:

Eatin’ Chicken.

Lead me to that buffet screamin’ and kickin’.

Too much grease to do my finger pickin’

All of that rib-stickin’ chicken.

My Lord, I swear all together

I’ve had so many chickens I’m sproutin’ feathers.

I’d sooner sit and watch my oatmeal thicken

Than eat another chicken.

Eatin’ Chicken.

Lead me to that buffet screamin’ and kickin’.

The food for singin’ songs and politickin’

All of that flea-flickin’ chicken.

The chicken that we got on Monday

They used all day in a football game that Sunday.

It was tough enough for passin’ and for kickin’

But not for eatin’… Oh, no …

Eatin’ Chicken.

Roll me to that buffet screamin’ and kickin’.

Later lay me down, burpin’ and hiccin’

All from that mother-frickin’ chicken.

Broiled. Breaded, baked or fried.

No place to run. No place to hide.

‘Scuse me, Ma’am, I’ve had enough

I can’t stand one more chicken puff.

Or chicken wings

Or a la King

Or a la Queen or else croquettes.

Dinner? Send my regrets.

I’m feelin’ weird. I’m off my feed.

I feel like chicken fricasseed.

Chicken salad. Chicken soup.

I’d like to find me a chicken coop.

And set right down for a little bit.

Maybe find me an egg and set on it.

(cluck, cluck, cluck.)