there was a young banty rooster named Ben
who liked to hit on all of the old hens
one sad summer day it was said
an axe was taken to his head
now all the old hens are safe in their pen
A lady was screaming and running
in circles, and she wasn’t funning.
A critter was chasing
her. Man! They were racing.
That rooster was swift and so cunning.
Her four-inch high heels made her stumble.
While kicking them off, she did grumble.
The banty was pecking
her ankles and wrecking
her panty hose. “S_ _ _!” She did mumble.
The farmers were calmly observing
this scene, their attention unswerving.
“Please help!” Her imploring,
they kept on ignoring,
not caring her plight was unnerving.
“Doggone bill collector!” one uttered.
“You IRS agent,” one muttered.
“I sell Avon!” she yelled
as tears welled and wounds swelled.
“C-call off this creature!” she stuttered.
“Don’t need none today,” they all told ‘er.
Her temper continued to smolder.
Pa said, “Leave ‘er alone.”
That fowl’s bad to the bone.
No rooster could ever be bolder!
Placed 1st in Charles Messina's Limerick Contest, September 2018
entered in Andrea Dietrich's limerick contest on 8-11-19
Data, social media, hardware, cyberbullying, software, internet connection, zip drive.
If the people who had to throw out pianos from covered wagons opened their ears to our world of today and heard our current speak,
they would probably believe that they have awoken on a different planet, one with an odd new language.
Can you fathom what they would think when they hear us banty about words like computer, telephone, digital reality, video games, refrigerators,
Electricity, Chryslers, Fords, Chevys, Jeeps, and Buicks?
A glimpse of a turned on TV set would probably have them climbing back into their wagon to hide under grandma’s lovingly made blanket, to pray that it would
go away.
Which makes me wonder, what was their word for glitzy and awesome?
As culture changes and evolves, so do our words.
There came no blackbird to nest in your claw-hand,
Kevin, or fledge a brood strange and sun-shunned
as you in the cold, cooped, dirt and straw
strakes where you lay down in first abandon.
Awake at cock-crow, banty lullabied,
your wretched scratch of years in netted dark
appalled - appals.
Humanity denied is always local.
All you'd come to know was taken from you -
twice. They say you missed the feathery air
and turned your little ears to catch the coo
of pigeons on the roof. Can you despair?
The pity is, you never learned to play,
the mercy is, you never learned to pray.
Our Banty rooster had no name.
We called him "Super Chick".
No predator could catch him,
He was just far too quick.
When he was newly from his shell,
Still in his mother's nest,
A sneak attacker killed his mom
And carried off the rest.
We didn't know this little one
Had managed to survive
Until we found him with the flock
Amazingly alive.
We watched for him each time we fed
And he was alway there,
Holding his own against the odds
Without a mother's care.
He grew into a handsome fowl,
More beautful than most
With iridescent feathers that
Would make a peacock boast.
The other roosters were picked off
All singly, one by one,
Until we decided raising
Banty chickens wasn't fun.
Super Chick was left to guard
His little Banty harem.
A neighbor's dog thought it would be
Hilarious to scare them.
Super knew that it was he
Who must take the big dog's dare.
He flew at the cur who fought back
And left him lying there.
Our little Banty is no more.
We took his loss so hard
That never again will we have
Pretty Bantys in our yard.
Written for Dane Ann's Contest Won 9th place
She wouldn't win a beauty prize
My happy little Muffin.
She wasn't very much for size,
But sure kept me a huffin'.
She chased the rooster to the deck
Just to see that banty run.
When he hit the house and broke his neck
She was just having fun.
We'd play a game of hide and seek.
I'd seek and she would run.
I'd be so tired I couldn't speak.
She'd still be having fun.
She watched him hide his pretty wares
When the Easter Bunny came.
And as the children ran in pairs,
She joined into their game.
Their short legs were longer than
The short ones that she wore.
For each egg going in their pan
She'd find a dozen more.
We tried to take them from her and
She'd look at us and grin.
Her mouth was faster than our hand
As another egg went in.
She wouldn't mind me when I called her
As I trembled and I cried.
Though I ran and pleaded with her
A car hit her and she died.
I've had dogs that were more faithful
And superior in size,
But at being glad and gleeful,
Happy Muffin wins the prize.
Grandkids love to hear the story
Of how Muffin stole the eggs
And how God took her up to glory
On her little Dachshund legs.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.