A rooster’s lying dead, stretched on the ground,
His fellow chickens gathered all around
To pay their last respects—
The rooster’s lying dead without a sound
With his poetic beak forever shut.
Oh how he’d crow in the sun,
Announcing the day has just begun
With his immortal cock-a-doodle-doo!
The rooster’s lying silent in full view—
Alongside of a highway he lies still—
Another victim of a road kill,
Run over by a redneck in a truck—
You should’ve seen his wife, the way she clucked
In mourning for her husband now gone...
The rooster may be dead but not his song
That he’d sing at dawn upon the roost—
That song of chicken heaven that would boost
Their morale, their sense of chicken pride—
His fellow chickens gathered by his side
To bid farewell to their departed bard,
That brought the sun and joy into the yard
With his immortal cock-a-doodle-doo!
The rooster’s lying dead—somehow I knew
That he would meet one day his sad demise,
And as I look inside your lovely eyes,
I see that rooster and my foolish past,
For nothing in this world is meant to last—
Yes, you and I will too one day be gone...
But not our love... just like that rooster’s song.
Why did the rooster cross the road? Probably on his morning journey to crow his poetry wake up call. No "chick a dee, dee" was he. He was the "cock of doodle, do." At least until he met his fate. Became part of the dead poet society.
Reminded me of my hotel room in a sealed, air-conditioned ninth floor in Manila, where a rooster reminded me it was morning every day.
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Reminded me of my hotel room in a sealed, air-conditioned ninth floor in Manila, where a rooster reminded me it was morning every day.
Ron