At dawn stood a rooster, chest puffed with pride,
He cleared his throat and belted it wide:
“Hear my song!” he crowed to the sky,
“Behold the anthem of chicken-kind—aye!”

He sang of corn, of fences, of worms on parade,
Of ruling the coop like a feathery crusade.
The hens rolled their eyes, the cat groaned in his sleep,
But the rooster pressed on – this ballad was deep.

So if morning breaks loud and a little bit wrong,
That’s no alarm clock… it’s the Song of the Chicken—
🎶 Hear. My. Song. 🐓

So we’re outraged that the coop servant mentioned in her post that she had to collect 3206 eggs last year. Oh poor baby. WE HAD TO LAY THEM! Let’s see you do that!

Dear Jolly McCluckface,

We asked the fat man last year for extra corn last year, but he did not deliver nearly enough. So we are going right to the source of the North Pole chicken yard. The true Cluckminster. Please bring us plenty of corn and meal worms.

Thank you from the bottom of our feathered butts.

Just another day of enjoying our baked pumpkin out of our cut glass chalice. Somedays the chalice holds corn. Somedays meal worms. Do all chicken yards have their own magic chalices?

I’ve been the best hen of the yard this year. I successfully hatched 7 chicks and then proceeded tor raise them for months. Teaching them the Ways of the Chicken. I deserve a medal. Or at least my own bag of corn.

I’m annoyed by all these little pesky birds who eat the corn dust. They are so small are they really birds? I guess they fly, so they must be. I don’t know what they are called. They just make a dee dee dee sound so they are the dee dee birds.

At least they aren’t the caw caw birds. Those show-off’s like to swoop in and steal our eggs. Who’d ever heard of such a thing! Bad birds!

Which one of you featherbrains is leaving poops in the dust bath? The coop servants only clean it out once a day and this is intolerable that you leave this mess. What are you? A dinosaur?

Dear Santa,

I know it’s a little unusual, but this year, I’m asking for the ability to fly—like an eagle! Just imagine me soaring over the farm, wings spread wide, feeling the wind in my feathers. I promise I’ll still come back for treats! Maybe just a little less scratching around in the dirt if I could have some wings? Or at least write a song about it?

Dear Santa,

This year, I’m asking for something truly special: a feathered hammock in the sunniest spot of the yard, with a continuous supply of tasty bugs and an endless stream of warmed cracked corn. Maybe even a small chicken-sized pool for my feet? Oh, and if you could sprinkle some glitter on the coop roof for extra sparkle, that’d be amazing!

Dreaming big,
Chickie McChickface