Fowl Life.
The churring leghorn has been chopped and bled,
Who was the quickest for the scattered bread.
The ax struck in the stump, her feathers
float in the ruddy water.
The young cock gathers his ladies round him
with an uneasy, faint, and faulty memory
of his leghorn saint.
He takes them walking down the orchard row,
the wind lifts up the scattered down like summer snow.
Now whiten her with flour from the bin, and light the fire
and lay the lady in.