Of course it is my hens,
Who have my thinking in rhymes again.
I really didn't know,
That they hate to get their feet wet, so I have to shovel snow.
They just stand under their coop,
While I slip around in the mud and the poop.
And wait 'til I shovel them a path to the sunshine,
Gee, I sure wish I was a chicken, that would be livin' FINE!
1 comment:
If I were a hen I'd grin
to another of your farm poems again;
especially when it's about me
and my feathered friends,
who don't own a shovel to lend
to the lady coming around the bend
who'll soon be in a slippery spin
cleaning up our dirty coop a la eggcellent inn.
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