THE CLUCKING DEAD Chef Juan | Poultrygeist: The Cluckening [LYRICAL DIRECTION — 88 BPM. Twisted country horror comedy. Dirty cigar-box guitar, creepy banjo, upright bass, scratchy fiddle, boot stomps, washboard. One warm raspy male baritone. Deadpan storytelling, sarcastic pauses, rolling internal rhymes. Bouncy country verses, explosive choruses. Spoken jokes remain spoken. Build from creepy suspense to ridiculous panic. No crowd, harmonies or extra singers.] [INTRO — CREAKING BARN DOOR, DISTANT CLUCKING, SPOKEN] Seen some strange shit in my lifetime. But I ain’t never seen a dead chicken steal a watermelon. Till Tuesday. [LOUD CLUCK — BANJO KICKS IN] [VERSE 1 — LAZY COUNTRY SWING, INTERNAL CHAINS] Old man Jenkins had a chicken named Sue, Mean little thing with an attitude. Died on Sunday, buried by noon, Monday night she came digging through. Dirt on her beak, feet all crooked, One eye hanging, other one looking. Neck bent sideways, wing half-plucked, Stared me down like, “What the cluck?” Porch-side, short slice, sweet rind, Spitting out seeds, just killing time. Scratch, tap, thump by the fence, Looked down twice, ain’t made sense. She hopped, stopped, spotted my plate, I said, “Sue, you’re dead. Go meet your fate.” She cocked that neck, let out a CLUCK, I dropped my melon and got the fuck up! [PRE-CHORUS — CREEPING FIDDLE, UNEASY WHISPER] Dog won’t bark, rooster won’t crow, Something’s walking that was buried below. [CHORUS — BIG BOUNCY COUNTRY STOMP] Cluck, cluck, RUN! Here come the dead! Watermelon juice all over their heads! Peck, peck, DUCK! Better move them feet! Them dead-ass chickens got a taste for something sweet! I said, “SUE, GET BACK!” She said, “CLUCK YOU!” Now the whole damn henhouse is coming through! [BANJO BREAK — FRANTIC CLUCKING] [VERSE 2 — QUICK COUNTRY SWING, RHYME CHAINS] Called up Jenkins, said, “Come get Sue!” He said, “Hell, she dead!” I said, “SHE AIN’T GOT THE NEWS!” He came down the lane, half dressed, half lit, One boot, no belt, pants wouldn’t fit. Shovel in one hand, beer in the other, Saw Sue by the shed, hollered for his mother. Six more scratched through the dirt by the gate, One stole his dentures, one ate his plate. One had no head, still knew where to go, One dragged a leg, moving crooked and slow. One stole a melon, one swallowed the rind, One pecked Jenkins right square in the behind! He jumped, bumped the pump, kicked the bucket off the stump, Stepped on a rake— caught the handle in the rump! I laughed so hard I could barely stand, Till Sue snatched the melon right out my hand. Jenkins started praying, I started my truck, He yelled, “WAIT FOR ME!” I said, “BOY, GOOD LUCK!” [PRE-CHORUS — DRUMS DROP, PANICKED WHISPER] Twelve in the driveway, three on the shed, One on my windshield… [PAUSE — SPOKEN] That son of a bitch ain’t got a head! [CHORUS — FRANTIC FIDDLE, HEAVY STOMP] Cluck, cluck, RUN! Here come the dead! Watermelon juice all over their heads! Peck, peck, DUCK! Better move them feet! Them dead-ass chickens got a taste for something sweet! I said, “SUE, GET BACK!” She said, “CLUCK YOU!” Now the whole damn henhouse is coming through! [BRIDGE — MUSIC STOPS, DEADPAN SPOKEN] Finally made it inside. Locked the door. Closed the blinds. Tick. Tap. Scratch. Coming from the kitchen. [REFRIGERATOR CREAKS] Sue was sitting on the bottom shelf. Eating my LAST damn watermelon. [ANGRY SHOUT] NOW THAT’S WHERE I DRAW THE LINE! [FINAL VERSE — FRANTIC COUNTRY SWING, GREASE SIZZLING] Grabbed my skillet, gripped that handle, Sue kicked over my pumpkin candle. Slipped on a seed, banged my knee, That dead-ass bird kept pecking at me. I swung, she ducked, I missed, she clucked. She bit my apron— I said, “THAT’S ENOUGH!” Backed in the kitchen, got grease in the pot, Turned that burner up, let the whole thing get hot. Flour on the counter, got my seasoning right, Sue brought twenty cousins to a damn grease fight! They scratched, I snatched, one slipped, I caught it, Dropped that bird in the grease— SHIT, I ALMOST FORGOT IT! [LOUD GREASE POP — MUSIC STOPS] [DEADPAN SPOKEN] Hold up… I’m a damn chef. Why the fuck am I running from dinner? [PAUSE] Fuck it. WE EATING ZOMBIE CHICKEN! [FINAL CHORUS — EXPLOSIVE COUNTRY STOMP, WILD FIDDLE] Cluck, cluck, FRY! Them chickens dead! Got grease popping, feathers flying overhead! Dip, dip, DUNK! Get them legs up high! They came back from the grave just to get deep-fried! I said, “SUE, GET BACK!” She said, “CLUCK YOU!” I said, “Bitch, you’re on the menu— AND YOUR WHOLE CREW TOO!” [OUTRO — GREASE SIZZLING, CALM SPOKEN] Jenkins came knocking. “You seen my chickens?” “Yeah.” “Where they at?” [PAUSE] I handed him a plate. “You want hot sauce with that?” [ONE FAINT CLUCK FROM THE PLATE] …Aw, hell. [BANJO CRASH — END]
