This Easter, Chicken?

Alas my poor Yoke is doomed to be fried        
along with its cock or hen's albumen,        
there was know way of knowing, I tried and tried,      
but it had no chance, strutting Cock or Hen?        
       
What? You egg! You'd spit your hot cooking fat        
out, ouch, damned spot, you bellow for revenge?      
I must now commit murder most foul... Splat!        
a bust yoke, my fingers of toast descend        
       
To a rapidly congealing egg yoke        
perhaps I should've boiled the poor dead thing,        
It's turning to be a macabre joke        
on birds who only croak and never sing...        
       
Another chicken didn't cross the road        
Oh, how many more? Their god only knows.