The Gamey

There was this kid who loved syrup. He bemoaned the days when mom was out of it. He dipped everything in it: bacon, biscuits, corn dogs, hot dogs, grilled cheese, french fries, cake and pork chops. And his list went on.
One day his uncle shot a squirrel, boiled it and put it on the kids plate. His uncle knew of his love for syrup and for the common use of syrup on wild game.
The kid tasted it.
“Hey, this tastes like chicken.”
“That’ s because it is chicken.”
“Really?”
“No. But yes it is chicken.”
“Schinken?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pork.”
“Not pork.”
“Is it squirrel?”
“No. It’s shicken.”
“Chicken?”
“No. Yes. It’s tastes like chicken right?”
“What am I eating?”
“You tell me.”
“It’s meat.”
“Yes it is.”
“Did you hunt it?”
“I may have.”
“Then it’s squirrel.”
“Maybe I shot a pig in the back.”
“Did you?”
“No, but I could have.”
“You hunt squirrel.”
“I do have a 22 caliber rifle.”
“Is it squirrel?”
“You’re a clickin’!”
And this line of questioning finally landed on a mobius strip and kept on going with ricochets of words never sticking to the conversation. And the syrup never ran out.