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The Famine and The Feast
THE FAMINE
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
None in the manger, and none in the shed,
None in the box where the chickens are fed,
None in the tussocks and none in the tub,
And only a little one out in the scrub.
Oh, I say! Dumplings to-day.
I fear that the hens must be laying away.
THE FEAST
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
Two in the manger, and four in the shed,
Six in the box where the chickens are fed,
Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub,
And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub.
Hip, hooray! Pudding to-day!
I think that the hens are beginning to lay.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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If the hen did not cackle no one would know what she had been about.
The hen is ill off when the egg teaches her how to cackle.
The hen ought not to cackle in presence of the cock.
He who spends a night with a chicken will cackle in the morning.
Cackleseed
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
They plant their gossip with a stinging of their tongues.
Cackleseeding like maidens chatting chit to chit chat.
With a tit for tat while knitting something gritty to unwrap.
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
The ones who gossip for the sport and fun of it.
And in strict 'confidence...
Juicy tea is pour on those who get no pity that's omitted.
Cackleseeders do their chatting,
With dirt to unpack.
Cackleseeders do their chatting,
With no benefit of facts.
No matter where they cackle at.
Cackleseeders do their chatting,
With dirt to unpack.
With no benefit of facts,
And no matter where they cackle at.
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
Cackleseeders do their chatting,
With dirt to unpack.
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
With no benefit of facts,
And no matter where they cackle at.
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
Cackleseeding like maidens chatting chit to chit chat.
With a tit for tat while knitting something gritty to unwrap.
Cackleseeders do their chatting,
With dirt to unpack.
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
Cackleseeding like maidens chatting chit to chit chat.
With a tit for tat while knitting something gritty to unwrap.
They do a cackleseed before a run done.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fairytale Endings
The kingdom of man is a tragic joke,
One we cackle and cry at until we croak,
And fairytale endings don't really exist,
For a frog is a frog even after it's kissed.
poem by Joshua Dinkin
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You cackle in our place but you lay your eggs at someone else's place.
Designated Driver
i am tempted to say
oh hesitant waitress
yes they are sisters
take their orders and
humor these women
who cackle and cuss
clinking their glasses
while we wait for juicy
filets potatoes salads
and bread and butter
poem by Jeffrey SpahrSummers
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On The Cackling Of A Hen
The hen, so soon as she an egg doth lay,
(Spreads the fame of her doing what she may.)
About the yard she cackling now doth go,
To tell what 'twas she at her nest did do.
Just thus it is with some professing men,
If they do ought that good is, like our hen
They can but cackle on't where e'er they go,
What their right hand doth their left hand must know.
poem by John Bunyan
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The Jolly Bee...
they say
love will always stay
based on the
experience of the
jolly bee
it is not at all
true
there are chickens
in love
at first they cackle
but then
they do not hatch
their eggs at
all
there are words
that touch
and go
there are options
unthought of
there are
empty
hollow words
without
any weight
there are nights
without days....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Muscovy Duck
The rooster is a brainless dude, although he sports a crest,
The hen’s an awful fool we know, though hen-eggs are the best;
She’ll flutter, cackling, anywhere save through a gate or door,
And try to hatch a door-knob, too, for forty days or more.
The turkey is of small account, we’ll let it go in peace,
And other fowls are ornaments, and geese are simply geese;
But over all that cackle, hiss, or gobble, quack, or cluck,
My favourite shall always be the quaint Muscovy duck.
I’m fond of Mrs Muscovy, I think she knows the most
Of all the different kinds of fowls that poultry-breeders boast.
She knows best how to build her nest when laying time is past,
And you should see the knowing pride with which she sets at last.
She waddles out for food and drink—she’s not afraid of us,
And if we fix her now and then she doesn’t make a fuss;
No frantic flaps of useless wings, no cackle, hiss, nor cluck,
She’s queen of all philosophers—the quaint Muscovy duck.
It is a wondrous thing to see, and a wondrous thing to tell,
Her ducklings know as much as ducks the day they leave the shell.
That she is proud as proud can be, is plain to any dunce—
The little ducklings set to work to grow up ducks at once;
And, on a sunny winter’s day, ’tis a good thing for the eyes
To see her waddle round and watch her ducklings catching flies,
I love her for her waddle, and her patience, and her pluck,
Her wag of tail and nod of head—the quaint Muscovy duck.
poem by Henry Lawson
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When I am dead....
When I am dead,
six feet below
and rain softens the ground
I will scrape the earth away
with cold, stiff hands
and wave at passers by.
I will take pleasure in the torment,
laugh zanily and call to them.
My bones will rattle with delight
as they run and scream.
What mischief, what fun
I will have when I die.
I'll not let the living
forget me, no!
I'll prop myself up
to be a nuisance
and cackle and creek
to reap my revenge on life.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Poets of Uganda (1976)
Whatever happened
To the poets of Uganda?
In the meantime –
We were as perfect as their bones could predict
We could not squander what they did not achieve
They heavy dead
We light and loving
Too human for politics
Deaf to abasement, to dictator’s fame
To the cackle of the fisted man
In the hours of giving
Please live with us, they say
Please touch us lovingly
I will be a husband to my brothers
Give you passion gently
Dwelling at your beauty
For all our poet-sakes.
poem by Frank Bana
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Blighters
The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
‘We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!’
I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag-time tunes, or ‘Home, sweet Home’,
And there’d be no more jokes in Music-halls
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Homomatopoia
Hiss,
Grunt,
roar
Gibber
growl
screech
Humm
drone
buzz
chirp
whistle
tweet
boom
yelp
cry
Bell
bark
squawk
woof
howl
quack
croak
cackle
cluck
hum
scream
chatter
pipe
sing
roar
oink
coo
moo
groan
trill
whinny
pansy
fop
shush
Roark!
poem by Jerome Moore
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Small is indeed BIG! ! !
Small brooks together make a big RIVER.
Small giggles together make a big LAUGHTER.
Small mickles together make a big MUCKLE.
Small chuckles together make a big CACKLE.
Small steps together make STAIRCASE.
Small bubbles together make EFFERVESCENCE.
poem by Meetika Srivastava
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Come Dance With Me
Come dance with me
On this Halloween night
Watch out for the gobblins
They might give you a fright
Come dance with me
And listen to the witches cackle
And as we go around the fire
Listen to the sticks pop and crackle
Come dance with me
Sorry if I step on your toes
For I never got use to
All these to-and-froes
Come dance with me
In that long black dress
Oh you look so hot
I may as well confess
Come dance with me
In the moons bright glow
If love is for real
We are about to know
Come dance with me
Until the morning light
And once we kiss
Everything will be alright
poem by Norman Hale
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