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?