The shrill voice of the cockerel rang clear
Echoing the stillness of the wee hours
The assailants are keen on its trail
The mission is simple, capture the Cockrell.
I reckon the cock’s death commissioned
The unfortunate thing will stand execution
Needless decipher the fate of all cocks,
it ends in the foot of a boiling pot.
At the terrace, on the embers, sat the boiling pot.
Like the undertaker, it patiently waits forth.
Oozing hot vapors from its gruesome panel
Oh, what macabre obsequies for the Cockrell.
The Cockrell cried and maneuvered
In no time it was duly captured
Brought feather cuffed to the undertaker
Who did the deed and laid it to rest.