Where do you think
you´re going, you funny little chicken?
Strutting your bright
feathers, as you go bob, peck, pecking,
On the side of the
busy road, where traffic goes past rushing,
You should be upon
your perch, asleep within soft hushing.
Trucks roaring past,
cars going by fast, a honking & a tooting,
But you just go on
a peck-pecking & ignoring all that hooting,
You are not an urban
chicken & could one day come to harm,
So flap your wings,
crow proud & strut right back to cosy farm.
No comments:
Post a Comment