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Fowl Life.

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The churring leghorn has
been chopped and bled,

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Who was the quickest
for the scattered bread.

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The ax struck in the
stump, her feathers

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float in the ruddy water.

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The young cock gathers
his ladies round him

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with an uneasy, faint,
and faulty memory

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of his leghorn saint.

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He takes them walking
down the orchard row,

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the wind lifts up the scattered
down like summer snow.

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Now whiten her with flour from
the bin, and light the fire

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and lay the lady in.

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