The inspiration for this song might have come from my surroundings. I was staying in an unheated motel room adjacent to the bar where I was performing in Fredericksburg, Virginia, so refrigeration must have been on my mind. I can’t say why I might have been thinking about chickens. But I’d given them some thought, which is more than they’ll do for themselves.

As a teacher, I once attended a seminar on the use of humor in the classroom. At the beginning, the instructor handed out index cards and asked that each of us jot down a topic we think is inherently funny. I wrote “poultry.” When he read it to the class, everyone looked puzzled, and no one even smiled. I knew I was in for a long afternoon. Right there, I knew exactly what is wrong with our whole educational system.

I think this rendition was recorded at the Washington Folk Festival; I could tell for sure if I could bring myself to listen to it. This is the kind of song that people tend to remember you for, sad to say. Please, don’t bring it up at my funeral.

The instrument you hear is most often called a “”Jew’s harp,” but it goes by a good many other names–jaw harp, juice harp, la guiambarde. . . . I’m told that the best ones come from Afghanistan, but I don’t know what they call it there. On every continent, from antiquity, people created instruments identical or very similar to the one you hear. What’s that tell you about humankind? Did you know that, in Borneo, if you play the Jew ’s harp outside your sweetie’s window, she’ll consider it a marriage proposal? The folks in Borneo think we’re wackier than they are. So do I.

Chicken in the Fridge, isn’t she a darlin
when you’re just about starvin in the middle of the night
you go trippin down the stairs and you’re gropin just to find it
and you open up the door, and you’re just about blinded by the light
Hang on tight, you’ll be squintin for a minute
but if you bear and grin it you’ll be sittin pretty good
when your eyes get adjustered to the glow and the luster
of the luminous foil all about that bird

Chicken in the fridge, this is what she sounds like
whatever something sounds like, that’s the way it is
Baby want a breast, papa want a thigh bone
little sis a’pickin at the chicken in the fridge

When I was seventeen, I got me pretty lonely
for a one and a only, hell, you know how it is
She laughed at my money but she called me honey
when I whispered to her softly, “I got chicken in the fridge.”

Ch.

I’m the kind of fella, I don’t like to go to meetin
I’d rather be eatin on my chicken so fine
and they don’t even give you butter when the serve the Lord’s Supper
just a old sodee cracker and a half a sip of wine

Ch.

Come reckonin day, I don’t care what they say
gonna stand before my Hostess at the tollin of the bell
I’ll say, “Hang on, Hanna, you can hold your manna
you ain’t got chicken? I’ll try ’em down in hell.”