The Difference Between A Rooster And A Man
on the grass i see this rooster wearing a thick red comb,
tall for its lowly status, and well muscled as may be gleaned from the
thickness of its black, red and white feathers
how can he notice me stopping by to observe it
when its attention is focused on two slender hens
one is red the other white getting near it
and without any inhibition at all he copulated on each
of those two slender hens, quickly as a quickie
i can imagine in a few days, the two hens cackle with
lots of eggs for the owner now prepared with a big basket
to bring the produce to a crowded market
if i as a man does what a rooster does, you very well know
what happens next
it will be the people of this republic v. ric
and his dismissal from the government service
it makes me think however, on the other hand, the happiness of
the owner selling more eggs in the market because the rooster
had been kind and obliging to the two hens and the other hens in the yard
what about it God?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Utilitarian Point Of View
as the gray hen cackles looking for a place to lay her eggs
the red rooster looks for another white hen to shuffle on the ground,
we who see this does not condemn, nay we never think of morality
or codes of ethical conduct, as the rooster is just doing the work that nature and man have assigned to it
no hen ever complains that the rooster has copulated with the other
six hens around the poultry in the backyard and in the garden
neither shall we reprimand the rooster for being so restless and
cocky and prolific or as we call it engages in promiscuous sex
all that we are thinking on that moment are the eggs that each hen can lay, our minds looking forward to every morning's breakfast, when we shall choose, the usual delights: either scrambled or sunny side up or perhaps a hard-boiled egg for our personal consumption.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Watching The Chickens
the strong cock
struts its way
towards a
group of hens
and as there
are too many
of them
hens, the cock
in confidence
does what is
of most service
to its master
he fucked them
all
for the eggs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Snowball Is Back With His Hens
Poor snowball the white silky bantam cock not feeling well of late
His son big red has thrashed him he is in a sorry state
Dried blood on his neck feathers from the comb he has bled
He has really copped a hiding from his oldest offspring red.
Red and his half sibling cock white silky bantams by Steve and Annie to be sold
Around the yard with their parent hens they won't grow tired and old
In the fowl pen they are obliged to wait tomorrow at the break of day
Steve will take them in a box to the fowl dealing woman in the house across the way.
Snowball is back with his hens his aggressive son now behind lettuce wire
Will never have another chance of attacking his snow white sire
Snowball is Steve and Annie's favourite rooster and they decide who stay
And violence as big red will find out it does not always pay.
Snowball the silky bantam cock he crows in the backyard
With dried blood on his neck feathers and his comb from warring scarred
And tomorrow big red will be gone and snowball again will reign supreme
And he will recover from his wounds and regain his self esteem.
poem by Francis Duggan
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While farmers generally allow one rooster for ten hens, ten men are scarcely sufficient to service one woman.
quote by Giovanni Boccaccio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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PUZZLED for Leslie Alexis
The peacock parades exquisitely.
Displays the glory of his tail,
the hens ignore him easily.
This bold display was bound to fail
The peacock has misjudged his time.
The hens aren’t ready to be wooed.
Although he thinks he is sublime
it’s not the time for hens to brood.
He’s young and inexperienced.
As yet he does not understand,
his tiny brain still hasn’t sensed.
The hens not he are in command.
The females don’t appreciate
his urgency he’ll have to wait.
20-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Trouble In The Backyard
with only one
rooster
and five hens
in my backyard
since then
everyday has
become nothing
but trouble.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Happy Easter
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
To strut and cluck for someone sleeping,
To get up.
And do that if programmed before the dawn shows up.
And if that rooster gets into a rut...
Who will then do the clucking?
Or wake up,
To collect the eggs!
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
To strut and cluck for someone sleeping,
To get up.
And do that if programmed before the dawn shows up.
And if that rooster gets into a rut...
Who will then do,
The clucking?
Or wake up,
To collect the eggs!
'Happy Easter'
~Do you notice anything different about those eggs? ~
'Yeah!
They are colored.
Why? '
~They are for the Easter Egg Hunt.
Put them back.~
'Oh!
I must be dreaming.
I thought I heard a rooster crow.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Familiarity brings liking
A cock loved with his commune hens.
Into yard, he started loving other hens.
Into jungle, other fowls too are appealing.
Once used to, you love any breed of woman.
30.05.2001, Berh
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Cocky Morning
don't be
malicious
the cocks
are sounding
off their
horns
to greet
the hens out there
good morning
and of course
the hens
crackle and giggle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Merry Maid
Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat,
She frowns offended when they call her fat--
Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place,
And all can know she wears a pretty face.
But still she never heeds what praise can say,
But does the work, and oft runs out to play,
To run about the yard and ramp and noise
And spring the mop upon the servant boys.
When old hens noise and cackle every where
She hurries eager if the eggs are dear,
And runs to seek them when they lay away
To get them ready for the market day.
She gambols with the men and laughs aloud
And only quarrels when they call her proud.
poem by John Clare
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The Town Between the Hills
The further the little girl leaped and ran,
The further she longed to be;
The white, white fields of jonquil flowers
Danced up as high as her knee
And flashed and sparkled before her eyes
Until she could hardly see.
So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood,
It was solemn and grave;
A sound like a wave
Sighed in the tree-tops
And then sighed no more.
But she was brave,
And the sky showed through
A bird's-egg blue,
And she saw
A tiny path that was running away
Over the hills to--who can say?
She ran, too.
But then the path broke,
Then the path ended
And wouldn't be mended.
A little old man
Sat on the edge,
Hugging the hedge.
He had a fire
And two eggs in a pan
And a paper poke
Of pepper and salt;
So she came to a halt
To watch and admire:
Cunning and nimble was he!
"May I help, if I can, little old man?"
"Bravo!" he said,
"You may dine with me.
I've two old eggs
From two white hens
and a loaf from a kind ladie:
Some fresh nutmegs,
Some cutlet ends
In pink and white paper frills:
And--I've--got
A little hot-pot
From the town between the hills."
He nodded his head
And made her a sign
To sit under the spray
Of a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her hands
And said the grace she had learned to say,
The little old man gave two dreadful squeals
And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels
As he tumbled, tumbled,
With his two old eggs
From two white hens,
His loaf from a kind ladie,
The fresh nutmegs,
The cutlet-ends
In the pink and white paper frills.
And away rumbled
The little hot-pot,
So much too hot,
From the ton between the hills.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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He that would have eggs must endure the cackling of hens.
Even clever hens sometimes lay their eggs among nettles.