Chickens are supreme lords of awesomeness. So I made a poem!
The proud rooster crowed above the green of day
He knows his song, the part he must play
His sickles arched and his hackles stiff and straight
Why must the cock summon forth the day?
The answer obscured, as are our parts to play
What have the rooster to crow and to say?
The cockerel is waiting in shadow of his father
Waiting and listening to the calls of another
Wait, does the cockerel, as is his part to play
Watch, does the cockerel, as the cock draws from night day
What has the cockerel in this matter to say?
Wait, must the young, till come their parts to play
Cackle, does the hen, for an egg she has laid
Flutter, do the pullet and hen, buff, white, and gray
Sit they must on their eggs through the day
For beneath are their children with chicken parts to play
The hen knows her place in the world harsh and black
She scratches and pecks, does not try to go back
The eggs do not live, as the hen cannot know
The eggs do not live, so to the farmer they go
The pullet, the hen, do not know of this way
Their part is to follow, and the chicken must obey
Living and loving their flock and their brethren
Who is the wise one? We ask those chickens then
Smart are the chickens! Would one call this absurd?
What wisdom is found in an all-too-common bird
Ah, clucks the chicken, for he or she cannot know
What part they are playing in the world humans sow
Chickens, you see, have a way that they follow
Where is the human's place, to make their death and sorrow?