The Chicks Are In The Mail
Papa Patriarch won’t gnaw my chicken leg
Because I arrived quite dead — outside my perfect egg
Did you think our postal service, despite reign, would prevail?
Sorry to inform you, the dead chicks are in the mail
The Dixie Chicks were southern, jarred awake they lost the “Dixie”
Their music remains well blended like Southern Comfort Whiskey
The Chicks can sing their hearts outs, now that they’ve gone upscale
Yet, we take little comfort, while bully bullets whiz and sail
AOC got a mic for a moment, but the squad chicks went unheard
We got a full voiced woman, but her screeching choked the word
The male gaze is withering, we wonder will manly feminism fail?
WAP hysteria still reminds us most mental chicks are in the male.
I was supposed to receive a “Gum’mint” check, months ago, I guess
It hasn’t come, slow, and slower still, because I changed address
I wonder what else we’re missing; lost votes could be our coffin nail
But it’s useless for us to worry when the check is in the mail
