The humble chook has always been
An icon for the rustic scene,
And keepers learn from friends or books
The art of keeping happy chooks.
Some chooks are kept in special pens,
The little chicks, the laying hens,
While other chooks are left to roam,
To scratch for food around the home.
Most chooks I’ve seen are quite content
To go exactly where they’re meant,
In paddocks green they like to range,
But Karen’s chooks are rather strange.
Her chooks are mad; they cause dismay,
For on the road they like to stray.
It’s not on verdant fields they merge,
But where the cars and trucks converge.
They search the black and tarry planes
For insects and their squashed remains.
But sometimes, whether just for fun,
Or whether they’ve had too much sun,
Or sick of watching juicy mites
Get spread across the passing lights,
Or bored from pecking bugs off tar,
They’ll peck one off a moving car!
Unnoticed by the car from town,
Another feral chook is down.
Its battered form just laying there,
With both its legs stuck in the air.
Poor Karen walks from her abode
To scrape the dead chook off the road,
And mourns it with an angry shriek,
“That’s seven stupid chooks this week!”
So when you visit Karen’s place,
Remember; drive a careful pace,
And take it easy round the bends,
And mind her kamikaze hens.
By – Stringybark