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Poem	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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