I may have ended in these flower beds,

But I was farmyard born, grit-gut, half-bred,

Had seven broods and wore the crown,

‘Til Chauntecleer cropped up. I did stand down,

But never let him fully have his way.

I plucked along to his upstart assay.

A trochee – claws in – then a cretic,

Four crochets and a semibreve – pathetic,

And Mr Narcissus crowed on and on,

His scaly legs lit by the morning sun.

My theory is that’s why he’s now deceased,

But call me less a widow, more released.

This rooster crooning is a piece of cake.

Too much, of course, may make my red neck ache.

A few bars will suffice to pave my way,

A touch of primal scream to crack the day,

When hens are cocks and cocks are plucky hens

In a mixed up, shook up world of nearly men.

Lay lay lady crowla.