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Dinner Time

She feeds those chickens everyday
And the rooster struts and crows
As the steam rolls from the pot
Plucking feathers for dinner she knows

Your wife sho taste good to me
Mister rooster chest puffs up
Sitting at the dinner table smiling
She fills up her drinking cup

Yall chillen leave those chicks lone
They might think their meal is a little pet
She keeps them away from the chickens
She is planning on wringing their neck

Bow yo head and thank the Laud
For this here chicken wez bout to eat
The children all obey their mother
To them the chicken is a real treat

Sitting at the dinner table
Smiles would shine from within
Now the children tell all their children
How everyday Granny fed them

Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
I was thinking about being in Mississippi with my great aunt and her chickens she raised when I wrote this. How she would sit at the kitchen table and talk to the rooster. That is why some of the words are misspelled because I tried to write it the way she talked.
Editing stage: 


I like the idea of this poem, but feel it needs some work. The last verse most of all. I would have something like this for an ending,( Now the children tell all their friends, how granny fed, then ate chicken.) Hope this helps, Love Roscoe...

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

... is tough. I write epic poetry filled with many characters and some speak very strangely. Trying to translate that into the written word is hard.
I agree with Roscoe that this would benefit from some extra work. The subject is very sentimental and I might consider pushing the dialect farther. You seem to have a grasp of it.
One of my pet peeves (this is just me, but I have to say it) is the lack of punctuation. I think it makes it a little difficult to know who is speaking right away.
Maybe think about it.
I enjoyed the poem.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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