Poultry poems

(With apologies to Walt Whitman and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

O ducklings! my ducklings! your water do you fling.
The shavings in your pen are damp, there's poop
          on everything.
Your food is wet, I had just set, your box
          all neat and clean.
Alas, before my very eyes, in seconds its
          untidy.
                    But O ducks! ducks! ducks!
                    O the light brown fluff you wear
                    And the little bills and webby feet
                                 seem to make it fair!




Beneath the warm and heated plate
Twenty chickens peep.
They're small and cute and stay up late,
Not often do they sleep.
Their bedding is strewn across the floor
And so we need to sweep.

We have four types of baby hen
With five of every kind.
Five black, five striped, five orange, and then
Some yellow you will find.
We did not think to count the chickens
The paper we just signed.

We spend a lot of time each day
Watching all the fun.
The chicks run here, then run away,
they lie down in the sun.
But when we really paid attention
We counted twenty-one.

Comments

Line said…
Tout à fait charmant! Bravo!

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