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A Question

by
 Whene’er I feed the barnyard folk
 My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
 And I am sore perplexed.
The rooster so politely stands While waiting for his food, But when I feed him, what a change! He then is rough and rude.
He crowds his gentle wives aside Or pecks them on the head; Sometimes I think it would be best If he were never fed.
And so I often stand for hours Deciding which is right— To impolitely have enough, Or starve and be polite.

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