THE HEN - THE POEM OF A FE-MALE



I am hen.

Yes I can fly a little and I can quack, too

But I fear to go out.

There sit a group

Of bottles all draining into men.


I fear.

Yes I fear.

After the liquid they’ll

Need some solid to chew.



They like me.

They like my feathers off

And my legs roasted

Well plated on tables.



Then they all will laugh

And ‘thank you for the dinner, friend’.



They will gather together again.

I will not be there.

There will be another hen.

Other legs. Roasted.
 

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