He stands a shaggy patchwork quilt
on short feathery legs,
his voice hoarse and cocky.
At dawn my cockerel recites his poems
brings up his feather-brained genius,
and asserts noisily his importance
amongst the living poets.
He plucks up his plumage to crow
about cheerfulness, how to start
a family, ruffles my feathers
with his insistence to rise early.
When I turn in my bed, sleep-struck,
his pitch gets indignant. I vow
to promote the rights of single mother hens,
find my feather duster
to tickle him out of his wits,
collect breakfast eggs
to teach him a lesson,
As he hurtles towards me
I hold a broom to crush his attack,
escape his outstretched spurs, duck
his raised blood curdling cock's comb
There will be no chickening out
He flies at the broom, flops with a throaty croak
like the victim in a poetic travesty. .
If he should fall, cock-a-doodle-doo, I should fall too.
High on purple prose he swears
to peck me into order,
wear me as a trophy in his feather boa.
I call his bluff.
go for breakfast
make scrambled eggs.
