Not living as long as we do,
Chickens do not have the time
Nor our bird-brained inclination
To piddle over whether or not
There’s some kind of god working
Wonders way up there above the weather;
You can see an example of this
When their gullets are parched
And the nearest watering
Hole’s dry as all get-out,
Soon as they hear the rumbling
Of nimbuses rolling their way,
Straightaway they tilt
Their dusty, wide-open beaks
Upwards, look God square
In the face and before you
Know it—by thunder—
Start gurgling
Grace.
No comments:
Post a Comment