A Question

 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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