Prelude

Be still, my soul, don't turn a hair.
Now listen and compare—don't tear
The vale of sweet oblivion. Spare
My memory and let the mare
Kick off the horseshoe. Where oh where
Has the shoe fallen? There oh there
It is. The nettle hides the rare
Omen of luck. Quick, nail it square
Upon the door. Oh vision fair—
I see the youth with auburn hair
Swinging his hatchet in the air.

Revelation

While wandering along the lane
I heard a crackle where the grain
Is thickest. 'Twas a mother hen
Tending her little brood, so then
I took to thinking oh how soon
Those chicks would pipe another tune.
Oh happy family of chicks
You pretty fluffy Dicky Dicks
So full of cunning little tricks

I left my summer cottage home
And to the city I did roam
And shortly after went to sea.
I was as busy as a bee.
They kept me working. Still my brain
Reverted to that country lane
Reverted to the fluffy fowl
Regardless of the Captain's growl
Who loved to swear and raise a howl.

'Tis six months later. I return
Walking along the lane. I yearn
To see those little chicks once more—
When down upon my ears there bore
The sound of pattering steps. Compelled
To halt and listen I beheld—
Oh, vision wonderfully fair—
The pretty youth with auburn hair
Swinging his hatchet in the air.

 The little chickens big have grown
'Twill never do now to postpone
Th' task. Th' head is on the block.
It is the flower of its flock.
The pretty youth with auburn hair
Swinging the hatchet in the air
Now chops a chop—oh what a chop!
The head drops off oh what a flop!
he chicken now begins to hop.

The dancing of a chicken with
No head upon its neck's no myth.
The chicken dancing down and up
The barnyard, really lifts the cup
Lifting it with its bloody neck
While round about she doth bedeck
The barnyard with the stream of life.
Unhappy hen, most bloody strife
Thou shouldst have been the rooster's wife.

Despite the strain upon my nerves
The table bountiful deserves
All praise, it is a charming sight.
The silverware is polished bright.
The little chick is roasted brown
His dancing days are slipping down
The vale of sweet oblivion. Thor
That mighty God ceases to roar.
The bloody neck is seen no more.

Envoy

Almighty Nabob, Prince of all
The muses, lift thy hand, appall
All enemies of peaceful clime.
Come fill my brain with thoughts sublime.
And nevermore with chopping axe
Let auburn headed youth so lax
Cater to morbid mind and chase
Tater and onion fry—how base!
Go hang yourself and swap your face.
Twist yer neck and mend yer pace
Shuffle th' deck, turn up the ace.

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