Saturday, March 20, 2010

A Farm Poem

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!
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1 comment:

  1. lfhpuebloMarch 22, 2010 at 4:31 AM

    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.

    ReplyDelete

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Judy~