The Pecking Order
Our granddaughters breed chickens,
On their property
They are not for finger-licking
Nor bred for KFC.
They are all unusual,
Superior, elite,
They strut around the property,
On their spotlessly clean feet
Our granddaughters love them dearly,
And they all have posh names,
You can see very clearly,
That they are individual, not the same.
Some stay cute and fluffy,
Even when they are old
Some are vain and huffy,
Who think their feathers are tinged with gold
They are fussy about who they mix with
Those chooks that don't come up to scratch,
Imagine being called a chook.
Who could possibly live with that?
But...
These maiden hens don't rule the roost,
Although most think they should
They don't have the right equipment,
And so there is no way that they could.
Enter the Cockerel
The ruler of the roost
King of the hen house
Whose ego needs a boost
A Magnificent bird
Handsome and huge in every way.
He wears a coat of many colours,
And has come out to play.
The hen maidens get eggcited,
When this gorgeous fowl they see
Silently, they gather round.
Thinking, will he choose me?
While enjoying this adoration
His Highness surveyed the scene,
Was this his imagination
Or were they the purest birds he'd seen?
He set to work eventually,
Impregnating everyone.
Our Granddaughters were overjoyed.
And all agreed it was a job well done!
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