Chickens,
which pick straw and drag worms out of holes, in the back yard,
don’t know that the are the last of a dying breed.
Scientists have found a way to produce them featherless, feetless,
easy to eat and bloodless to kill.
The rooster in the yard, sharp eyed
and keen doesn’t know that he’s being made redundant; extinct
and that the world will wake up at dawn
by an artificial (kykkiliky.)
Devoid of care chickens trips about,
cackles restore pecking order,
lay eggs and subject themselves to the funny ways
of king rooster in the yard.

(´cock-a doodle do)