His heart raced in his chest as his boots smacked the packed dirt.
Sweat soaked through his straw hat.
His pursuer shadowed him.
She matched him, step for step.
She already had one.
A claw caught him in the back.
She paralleled his pitch with vibrato.
The ratchet chicken had finally flown the coop.
The diva and her entourage of back-up chicken singers sang out, through beaks stained with red lipstick, “Old McDonald HAD a farm,” in perfect harmony.