sounds like a cluck, not a cock-a-doodle-do
a barnyard is nearby, country is the clue
I strain to listen, but the sound is gone
Now I hear hooting down by my pond
"What are you all quacking about?" squawked Reginald Cluck,
Peering from his coop, quite out of luck.
A drizzle had started, a timid, soft weep,
While others still snoozed in feathery sleep.
"A little rain never hurt anyone!" chirped Pip,
Whose splash-prone spirit rarely would slip.
He’d eye every puddle, a shimmering pond,
With a gleam in his eye, quite remarkably fond.
Reginald scoffed, adjusted his comb,
"Such soggy affairs! I prefer my dry home."
He’d seen the contest poster, a splashy delight,
But preferred his reflections, all polished and bright.
Then a gust, unexpected, a mischievous sigh,
Tumbled Reginald forward, right under the sky.
He landed with grace, in a puddle so grand,
A most dignified splish across the wet land.
His feathers, now plastered, his dignity skewed,
He blinked at his image, delightfully new.
"Let's do the chicken splash!" he suddenly cried,
As the "Mystic Rose" whispered, "Don't hide your wet side!"
And so Reginald Cluck, once a skeptic so stiff,
Discovered true joy in that watery whiff.
He kicked up a fountain, a most glorious spray,
Proof that a puddle can brighten your day.
In my kitchen, an old-fashioned timer
Keeps track of my coffee pot’s perk.
I wind it and eight minutes later,
The pot has completed its work.
The timer is shaped like a chicken;
It ticks as the minutes elapse,
Then rings to announce its completion,
Technology prior to apps.
Yet this morning, my chicken stopped tickin’;
Its mechanics have chirped its last cluck,
So I kept a close watch on my coffee -
Guess Alexa would never get stuck!
when uttering a fowl cluck
was told I was pushin' my luck
but as my defense-a
the chicks weren't from mensa
and bought my routine as a duck
The turkey awoke, heard knives sharply clickin'
then muttered a phrase that made my blood quicken
said I'm sorry to say
that just for today
I'll be identifying as a plump chicken
As chicken little always said "life clucks and then you fry".
In the annals of Rome the least glorious
was an emperor named Honorius.
Though Rome's plight was alarming
he spent his time chicken farming,
a pursuit which made him notorious.
Eating three eggs a day cracks me up
It scrambles my brain, like Benedict's butt
If egg foo young
Then over-easy my son
That's it eggactly, we should omelet it or cluck
I purchased a bantam in Feckham
And named her Victoria Peckham
This scrawny old bird
Just can’t cluck a word
She's hoping the farmer won't neck em!
Our rooster is called ‘Coq au vin’
He tries to fly just like Batman
If Victoria sings
He starts flapping his wings
At least the old bird’s got one fan!!
I've just returned from a moonlight walk with my hubby ... we were just going past a farm and I had to stop to write the first limerick down and wrote the second when i got home ... I do worry about my muse!
4/4/18
Ten miles dating a chicken. Lots of corn curries. A banked grain is discovered by clawing the ground. But if a temperate climate ruffles feathers it is not wise to stand. It is imperative to enter the cossetting coop and slam the door. When over two hundred and fifty eggs are a notion which signifies a pathway it is dangerous to crack. Oh. It is neither in the style of comb on a head or a tail arch that delivers a perfect yolk. To absorb. Contemplate. Recognise. And ascertain. So racing a pigeon and an ostrich and a dodo is fantastic fun in the summer months. But if a cockerel bakes bread then crowing is prevalent in the morning and evening and also the afternoon. The first source. Wow a dusty book with leaves in it. Squalid squatting squaring squared sandy strutting streams. And a bowl of cornflakes floating in a lake in a paper bowl. 1 2 3 4 5 then. Great. Poultry post. Aviation z
Emma my egg-laying hen,
Was clucking away in her pen,
She sat on her nest
Rolling out one of her best,
This week her count's up to ten.
It is a great American dish from the South.
It tastes great once it gets into your mouth.
Very high on the popularity scale it rates.
People now eat it in all fifty states.
You need a small chicken weighing about a kilo.
Cut it up in pieces, and toss it in flour just so.
A few herbs and spices will improve the taste.
Fry it up in hot oil until crispy with haste.
The pieces look a nice dark brown when done.
Serve it up with some fixings, and the battle is won.
When a wood duck’s,
cluck is stuck,
how much cluck,
would a wood duck cluck,
if a wood duck,
could cluck,
as a wood duck,
with a stuck,
wood duck’s cluck?
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