I dote upon the softer sex.
The theme I write upon doth vex,
For female inconsistency
A sorry subject is for me
To tackle;
Yet of a wayward female hen
I write this time, with halting pen.
Compound of pride, and vanity,
All feathers she appear'd to be,
And cackle.
This conduct greatly scandalised
The farmyard; all looked on surprised,
All but the rooster staid and grim;
He did not fret. 'Twas not for him
To rate her;
He let her go her wilful way,
And purchased for himself one day
A strange contraption—glass and tin—
An article that's called an in-
Cubator.
In future you your way may go,
And I'll go mine, misguided hen!"
Said he. She fell to pleading then,
But vainly.
"I'm better off without," he said,
"A wife with such an empty head.
* * *
He flourishes. His wife, grown stout,
Neglected, squa-a-ks and stalks about—
Ungainly.
Moral.
It's a wise chicken in these days that knows
its own mother.