Nothing here follows ordinary logic, and the poem seems to enjoy that. It opens with an angry hen tearing down a dove and a lark, birds we usually link with peace and song, and then calls the result "a pretty dish." The title, "Tastes Like Chicken," makes the joke explicit: violence and dinner are mixed together, so the birds are both victims and food.
Then the images swerve. A mouth "dropped thirty guns" in a "high debate with the sea," which sounds like a naval battle, though it could also be a loud argument or a meal turned into a war. The last lines, with the wind blowing hard and a mother "put to bed," feel like a strange, abrupt lullaby.
The speaker's feelings are hard to pin down. The tone is deadpan, almost amused, while the content is aggressive. The mood is playful, odd, and slightly unsettling, like a dream where the pieces refuse to line up but still seem to mean something.