A rooster, feathered and well fed
was sitting on his waterbed.
He swayed and felt some vertigo
the cause of which is hard to know.
His favourite hen, who was still chaste
was getting dressed in a big haste.
They were expected in the yard
where they would have a feast of lard.
The farmer's brother with his gun
had killed a porker (not for fun) .
Since they were Yanks they only ate
pork chops and roasts.. At any rate
they'd dump the lard in a big mound
right on the, slightly dirty, ground.
The chickens went and ate their fill
and did appreciate the kill.
Perhaps for you the question begs,
did they lay more or fewer eggs?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem