Whatever kind of bird is served,
There's a preference that's observed.
"White or dark" is often asked,
At a feast when the platter's passed.
There are those that crave the breast,
The meat that's white and liked the best.
But I think it's dull and rather bland.
Whether freshly baked or be it canned.
And the breast is easily carved,
Just one slice to feed the starved,
The carver's hand needs no skill,
To collect enough and plates to fill.
A drum stick for a main entree,
Can be harder to carve away,
Being wrapped around a femoral shaft,
Its collection demands a special craft.
This dark meat is my favored one,
That makes my palate sing and hum.
The thigh is where the taste resides,
And slightly north you'll find a prize.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem