Holy Crusade of the Rubber Chickens

Gather ‘round, comrades, hear the cluck of our quest,
In the Holy Crusade of the Rubber Chickens, we jest.
One rubber chicken for each battered spirit —
Take heed, it squeaks with revolution, so let’s hear it!

We march, feathers flapping, a sight to behold,
A brigade of absurdity, brave, bright, and bold.
Through alleys of apathy, we carry our load,
In search of a system that can be salvaged by silliness,
As we lighten the heavy, our laughter bestowed.

With each squawk of rebellion, performative art,
We question the sincerity that sets us apart.
For in the grand movements, where compassion can drift,
Can comedic gestures ignite a real shift?

Through the streets we parade, our mission sincere,
To deliver these chickens, to spread joy and cheer.
Yet the irony looms, as we flutter and flap,
In this chaotic compassion, can we bridge the gap?

At the end of our sacred journey, what’s left to redeem?
We see corporate suits slipping on chicken grease, it seems.
A slip-n-slide of conscience, a fall from their graces,
As laughter erupts, and the truth re-embraces.