Poetry Archives

Whene’er I feed the barnyard folk
  My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
  And I am sore perplexed.

The rooster so politely stands
  While waiting for his food,
But when I feed him, what a change!
  He then is rough and rude.

He crowds his gentle wives aside
  Or pecks them on the head;
Sometimes I think it would be best
  If he were never fed.

And so I often stand for hours
  Deciding which is right—
To impolitely have enough,
  Or starve and be polite.