How to explain poetry to hens
First there are sound-colours, then pecking at tiles
Hiding behind stalks and murmuring sorrows
You may feel an idea coming, but not just yet
It’s more of a shallow burp at the moment.
There is plenty more to be had from the feed
And then there is that great big red cock
Who is no euphemism, he’s a right distraction
His wattle all a-quiver with emotion.
Sometimes I scratch for hours, there are lean pickings
Indigestible husks, pebbles and maybe a tail feather
From something that happened in 1977
I could use as inspiration.
It’s all eggs with you ladies
You are useful
I’m just a poet
But at least I can get a thought fox in my sights
When he comes creeping in his long black stockings
Through the shocked meadow
He’ll not be breaking my neck for fun
Anytime on a Tuesday evening in June.
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