Bock, Bock, Bock

Bock, bock, bock,
      On thy asphalt lanes, O road!
And I would that Fate might warn me
      what my escapade may forebode.

O, peep for the tender hatchling,
      so warm 'neath the sheltering hen.
O, peep for the cackling chickies
      who scamper at play in the pen.

And the bright green tractor rumbles
      till it sleeps at night in the shed.
But, O for the cluck of my brother's beak,
      and sighs for his cleavèd head.

Bock, bock, bock,
      By this road, far away from the coop.
But I'll never forget the horrid sound
      Of the farmer a'slurping his soup.

© Washington Snow