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Picapollo

Rating: 2.8

On Sundays, not much money
I eat at a chicken place.
People wait in line for hours
to have it fried or baked.

Chicken parts everywhere,
The napkins are chicken feathers,
Bathroom's liquid soap
is made from chicken blood.

Women selling chicken are fat,
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Jaime Guerra 11 September 2005

Bravo...bravo. W.C.W. Would be proud.

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Poetry Hound 22 April 2005

The ending threw me for a loop and made what was a decent poem into an excellent one. Thanks, Juan. Please post more of your poetry.

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