Poor, poor Chicken Pants

Poor, poor Chicken Pants, how he longs for a friend. Man pants, chicken beak, chicken feet, heart of gold, our old dear friend shuffles along the darkened street. He is alone. And it is quiet. All quiet on a lonesome night. Chicken Pants scratches one clawed foot in the dirt. He looks up at the moon. Looks back down at the ground. He longs to scratch his beak-ed nose, but has no hands to do it. Chicken Pants has never "touched hands" with anyone. He kicks a pebble and listens as it rolls into the darkness. "What am I for?" He says to the moon. "What is my purpose?" He asks again, his voice growing softer. And in the quietest moment of all, he whispers,"bok... bok bok?" And his words are swept away with the wind.