A doozie of a rooster!

Herb, the old rooster,
(ev'ry chick is his booster)
swoons, sighs, and 'up' goes his flag.
One of these days his heart will flip-flop.
Herb will be sporting toe tags.
Oh, Herb, gotta curb the urge,
with every woman you cannot merge.
Herb, you old trickster,
you strut so in a mixer . . .
you've that gleam in your eyes.
Your 'action-Jackson' hands are flexin';
satisfaction's walking by.
Oh, Herb, your eyes are stuck crossed.
Count the women you have loved, lost.
Herb, cock-a-doodle,
she's a dog . . . poodle.
He moans, his bones crack,
so excited that his flag falls down.
The men think him a flack
but Herb controls ev'ry urge . . .
understands 'no', won't submerge.
Herb, you have your pick,
what a fine lot of chicks.
You need time to unflurl, be praised.
He's 'up' to his duty when it's raised.
Now the chicks stare profound
another rooster struts 'round.
You'd better run or fly Herb . . .
there's more gathering 'round the curb.