By Shelly Reuben
I have recently learned, I’m embarrassed to say
(And in knowing I’m now panic-stricken)
Of the arduous trials in the course of a day
Of a fine-feathered coop-dwelling chicken!
Never…no never…did once I suspect
That their lives could be so God-forsaken
I had thought that those birds lolled in stress-
But was sadly and badly mistaken.
Imagine—Oh, no!—what those poor creatures
Just like clockwork, a chicken must lay
(Regardless of if she is “not in the mood”)
An egg, in her nest. Every day!
What a life! What a life! What a ghastly
Not a minute for anything fun.
Not a manicure, pedicure, trip to the mall,
Nor a day at the beach in the sun.
Egg after egg after egg after egg,
One a day every day every year.
That is nine hundred eggs over nine hundred
Then…each morning, THEY ALL DISAPPEAR!
“Good Grief,” says Hen One; “Woe is me,” says
“Where’s my infant? My chick? Where’s my
(Imagine if that newborn baby was yours…
You surely would be driven wild!”)
No maternity clothes for that egg-laying gal,
And no birth-coach to teach her to breathe.
Just an egg in the nest every single damn day,
Then it’s taken with no by-your-leave.
And worse than all that (how much worse can
Love’s exempt from this poultry equation.
To impregnate a chicken, no rooster’s required
For romantic and manly persuasion.
Imagine again (there’s no end of bad news)
All the energy, effort, and work.
A baby a day, every day, every year.
It would drive a mere human berserk!
With that thought in my mind, I will finish this
And I’ll gracefully lay down my pen.
I was happy to scribble this couplet for you—
Much less trouble than being a hen!!