Chickens are small,
And some are tall,
Their feathers are fluffy,
And sometimes puffy,
They make good friends,
And when their life ends,
You can eat them.
They produce homemade eggs,
And don’t do nutmegs,
They like to snuggle up in your arms,
They don’t like it when danger harms,
In day time they live in their run,
They’ll eat anything even meat in a bun,
I would most like ten,
They do not live in a pen,
It’s called a coop,
In which they poop.