I asked AI to write me a poem about combs. I was not disappointed:
The Comb’s Crown
Upon each hen and rooster’s head,
A crimson crown is proudly spread.
Not gold, not jewels, nor silver rings,
But living crowns that nature brings.
They stand like flames against the sky,
Or flop and tilt when winds drift by.
Some tall and jagged, some small and neat, A banner above their busy beaks.
In winter cold, they blush with frost,
In summer’s heat, no breath is lost—
For combs keep chickens cool and bright,
A crown of function, pure delight.
So when you see a chicken roam,
Look to the top—the regal comb.
A humble farmyard’s royal thing,
A crown that clucks, instead of sings.
Here’s a more playful one:
Ode to the Comb (A Roast)
Oh chicken comb, you wobbly hat,
A floppy crown that screams, “Look at that!” Red rubber spatula glued on tight,
Fashion disaster, morning and night.
You’re like a traffic cone on parade,
Or a chewed-up eraser that never decayed.
The wind makes you jiggle, the rain makes you flop,
Honestly, comb, you should just stop.
Yet every hen and rooster struts,
Proud of their squishy head-top guts.
So here’s to the comb—absurd, yet grand,
The weirdest crown in all the land.
The Comb’s Crown
Upon each hen and rooster’s head,
A crimson crown is proudly spread.
Not gold, not jewels, nor silver rings,
But living crowns that nature brings.
They stand like flames against the sky,
Or flop and tilt when winds drift by.
Some tall and jagged, some small and neat, A banner above their busy beaks.
In winter cold, they blush with frost,
In summer’s heat, no breath is lost—
For combs keep chickens cool and bright,
A crown of function, pure delight.
So when you see a chicken roam,
Look to the top—the regal comb.
A humble farmyard’s royal thing,
A crown that clucks, instead of sings.
Here’s a more playful one:
Ode to the Comb (A Roast)
Oh chicken comb, you wobbly hat,
A floppy crown that screams, “Look at that!” Red rubber spatula glued on tight,
Fashion disaster, morning and night.
You’re like a traffic cone on parade,
Or a chewed-up eraser that never decayed.
The wind makes you jiggle, the rain makes you flop,
Honestly, comb, you should just stop.
Yet every hen and rooster struts,
Proud of their squishy head-top guts.
So here’s to the comb—absurd, yet grand,
The weirdest crown in all the land.
