A week or so ago on Book Balloon we were joking around about writing prompts, and someone came up with "Justin Bieber, Mitt Romney and a chicken walk into a bar...." My response to that was "This is going to be a long evening," said the chicken, "I need to get fried."

More joking went on, with PCashwell saying that the form of the product hadn't been specified. Whereupon TPC said "A sestina!" Well, for some reason I couldn't get the idea of a sestina out of my mind - though I did manage to mis-remember it as a chicken, Romney and Gingrich. But here, for your amusement...

A Sestina

I was tending my bar, counting my money
When in walked a chicken, Newt, and Romney.
“Here’s a joke,” I thought, as I wiped the bar.
“What can I get you?” I asked of the three.
“Give me a whiskey,” the hen said as she sat.
"This’ll be a long evening, I need to get fried.”

My breakfast that morning, eggs scrambled not fried,
Began to heave as Mitt spoke of his money
The chicken and Newt, well they just sat
Not saying anything that might stifle Romney
I wished there was a response from one of the three,
Because Mitt’s chatter about cash didn’t fit in this bar.

Why, the usual customer in my middle-class bar
Is happy to be able to afford nice eggs, fried.
But most of them only have two, not three,
Because of cholesterol, yes, but also money
A concern I think that never bothered Mitt Romney
And still, chatting of cash, there the three sat.

The chicken rustled a bit on the stool where she sat
And looking around said, “This is a nice little bar.”
“How much does it profit you?” asked Mr. Romney.
(He’d had a few whiskies but wasn’t yet fried.)
“Why,” he said, “I bet it earns a little money!
Say, two hundred thousand bucks or maybe even three!!”

Newt put down his glass and looked around at us three
Romney, the chicken, and I, where I sat
“You can’t buy happiness, not with all your money.
You need to take a good wife to the matrimonial bar!”
The chicken, she cackled,” You really are fried!”
“You’ve tried that three times.” muttered Romney.

“How happy are you, Newt?” asked Mr. Romney,
Trotting around with wife number Three?”
Newt looked glumly away, the chicken looked fried.
But Romney rushed out of the bar while they sat
“Left my dog on the roof,” he said coming back to the bar
“He doesn’t look happy, but I’ll give him some money.”

The chicken was fried and so was Mitt Romney.
I tallied my money and gave their tabs to the three.
After they left I just sat, in the quiet of my bar.