"America! when will you send your eggs to India"? / Allen Ginsberg 

when I first read that line I ignored its plea.

but in the morning there it was, lingering

at my sensibilities like the overpowering urge

to commit a bunch of mortal sins and get away with it.

why not? God's always busy with something or other,

things which carry weight, occupy space and

other day-to-day human activities.

there he is now sitting on the couch at Fox and Friends

with his mouth shut while they badmouth Chelsea Clinton.

but how will I know when America sends its eggs to India?

I'd say: send some of my eggs and some from God's personal stash.

what's the problem? I've been told they’re all the same eggs.

mine are in the Frigidaire right now two short of a dozen

fresh from the coops of the backyard henhouse.–– but, christ!

who knew India was hungry for our eggs?

certainly not me that's for sure.

but it appears I know something about chickens.

who knew?