IT TASTES LIKE CHICKEN, DON’T RUIN THIS

[genre: bardcore heavy-metal Patchwave / tavern-thrash feast anthem / medieval Glitch-tar roast / questionable-meat battle hymn] [tone: rowdy, nostalgic, suspicious, hungry, triumphant, crude, knowingly philosophical] [vocal style: solo middle-aged male Prophet; booming bardic narration, amused tavern swagger, rapid patter, strong metal chorus, dry spoken punchlines; spectral self-doubles only] [instrumentation: distorted Glitch-tar, hurdy-gurdy, lute, nyckelharpa, hammered dulcimer, frame drum, galloping bass, double-kick drums, shawms, stomps, tankard percussion] [effects: tavern room tone, fire crackle, plate clatter, fryer hiss, menu-page flips, Glitch-tar stabs, sudden hard silences, brief Tear crackle] [INTRO — THE QUEST FOR WINGS] [hurdy-gurdy drone] [slow lute] [PROPHET — grand storyteller] I crossed seven roads beneath three moons. Slept in ruins. Bartered with creatures that considered currency a personality flaw. Walked two days because a traveler told me there was a tavern ahead that served— [huge Glitch-tar chord] wings. [brief silence] They lied. But not about the taste. [VERSE 1 — HOMESICK FOR GREASE] [galloping bardcore groove] I missed Earth nights with a greasy plate, hot sauce burning half past late, crispy skin, cold drink, messy hands, the kind of meal that ruins plans. No chickens here. No farms. No feathers. No little bird assembled properly together. Kora remembers what the stomach knows— sometimes home is Buffalo sauce running down your clothes. [PRE-CHORUS — THE SMELL] [nyckelharpa rises] Then I smelled it. Smoke and spice. Fried so hard it smelled like vice. I asked the cook: “What creature’s this?” He smiled. I said: “Never mind. Just bring the dish.” [CHORUS — DON’T RUIN THIS] [full heavy-metal surge] It tastes like chicken— don’t ruin this! Crispy skin, hot sauce, beautiful bliss! No wings! No bird! No questions tonight! If it crunches right and the sauce hits bright, I am calling these wings and I’ll die on this hill! It tastes like chicken— leave me alone! I crossed six worlds for something like home! Don’t name the species! Don’t show me the chart! Pass me the sauce and protect my heart! [VERSE 2 — WHAT IS THIS THING?] [groove gets heavier] I found no bone where bones should be. Found three joints where there ought to be three— Actually— no. That one had five. [PROPHET — spoken] Still delicious. I asked: “Was this thing flying?” The cook said: “Never.” “Did it have wings?” “No.” “Was it at least a bird?” [pause] He laughed. That should have been more concerning. The menu said: locally harvested. It did not specify from what. Reth gave me facts. Varr-kav made the decision. [BARDIC REFRAIN — FRY IT / SAUCE IT / STOP ASKING] [tankard stomps] Fry it! Sauce it! Pass the plate! Questions make the dinner late! Bread it! Crisp it! Salt it right! Ignorance tastes good tonight! Fry it! Sauce it! Let it sing! If it eats like wings— then call it wings! [Glitch-tar stab] Close enough. [VERSE 3 — SECOND PLATE] [148 BPM] The cook returned with twelve more pieces. One was twitching. Very slightly. [hard stop] [PROPHET] Heat retention. Probably. I asked: “Is the animal dead?” The cook said: “Mostly.” [drums stop] [PROPHET] Another dozen, please. [band slams back] No feathers. No beak. No recognizable thigh. One piece blinked. I looked away. Humanity invented processing for moments just like this: if dinner loses its face, morality gets easier to season. [FEAST BREAKDOWN — HUMANITY HAS DONE WORSE] [160 BPM] [rapid patter over thrash riff] Shape it like a nugget! Put it in a bucket! Bread it till nobody knows where you plucked it! Press it! Form it! Flavor the paste! Give it a mascot and improve the taste! Mechanically separate it! Freeze it! Reheat! Call it premium! Make it neat! Put twelve ingredients under “natural flavor”— [Glitch-tar squeal] —and suddenly everybody feels safer! [PROPHET — shouted] Sauce is plausible deniability! [big hit] Frying is witness protection! [CHORUS II — IT TASTES LIKE HOME] [full triumphant arrangement] It tastes like chicken— don’t ruin this! No feathers! No ethics report! Just bliss! No wings! No bird! No useful reply! If it takes hot sauce, I’m willing to lie! It tastes like chicken— close enough! Home gets strange when the worlds get rough! Don’t tell me the organs! Don’t point to the chart! Pass me the basket and protect my heart! [BRIDGE — TELL ME ENOUGH] [tempo drops to 118 BPM] [low hurdy-gurdy + clean Glitch-tar] We say: “Tell me where my food comes from.” We say: “I want transparency.” We say: “I want to know what I’m eating.” [quiet] Usually we mean: Tell me enough that I can keep eating. Not enough to picture the eyes. Not enough to imagine the floor. Not enough to remember that dinner used to have a life, a shape, a system, a name. [Glitch-tar harmonic] Reth tells you what it is. Varr decides whether you care. [pause] And damn— the sauce was good. [VERSE 4 — THIRD PLATE / NO PHILOSOPHY] [groove rebuilds] Third plate down. Nai was three plates ago. Mira lives in the sauce now. Memory without obligation. I stopped asking what muscle this was. Stopped asking why it regenerated. Stopped asking why the kitchen had restraints. [PROPHET — dry] Food safety. Probably. The local beside me said: “Those are not wings.” I looked him dead in all four eyes. [brief pause] “They are now.” [FINAL CHORUS — CALL IT A WING] [150 BPM, maximum tavern-heavy-metal energy] It tastes like chicken— don’t ruin this! Crispy, hot, questionable bliss! No wings! No bird! No problem tonight! If it crunches right and the sauce hits bright, then history can argue while I take another bite! It tastes like chicken— that’s enough! Reality’s weird and dinner is rough! Reth can complain! Varr gets the vote! Pass me the basket— and loosen my coat! It tastes like home— however wrong! So raise up the plate and carry it on! [OUTRO — NO WINGS WERE INVOLVED] [instruments reduce to lute, hurdy-gurdy and low Glitch-tar] [PROPHET — satisfied] Eventually, I asked the cook: “What creature is this?” [pause] He told me. [long silence] [plate clatter] [PROPHET] ...another dozen, please. Extra hot. [small pause] Look— if it crunches, takes sauce, and makes me homesick— it counts as a wing. [Glitch-tar final chord] No wings were involved. No further questions. [end of line.]