The Rooster
A rooster stood there with his fluted crown,
Wondering which way he'd go out on the town;
He had an evil eye and with lust there was no lack,
As he gazed on the hens he was wont to attack.
His intent was to choose the easiest to find,
And with passionate wing he'd paddle her behind;
But the hens were wary of his stealthy advance,
For fear was there in each anxious glance.
There was no love for he was no friend,
And the attack was bitter right to the end;
There were scuffles and shuffles and bruised feathered wing,
With cawing and clawing and no chicken to sing.
He flattened her there in the cloudy dust,
While his passions were consumed with a rigorous lust;
And the poor little hen sat looking dazed,
While the rooster stalked off, proud of his ways.
I guess that's the nature of the nasty bird,
He's best in a soup pot where his noise won't be heard.
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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