The Demeaning -

There is nothing quaint
about the cackling of hens
as they drop their spattering spore
of antiquated lore upon the barnyard.

Their eyes on the rooster who wishes
he could crow as well as the ladies,
they bend over ready to take it like a man.
Comparing feathers, bubbly beaks reak
of licking asses just a tad too often.

A claw, always protruding
under dressings of fluff, and furl,
some girl chiccie, snickety,
but sweet is the first to prance forward.

"Well I don't know.
It just seems strange to me.
But I could be wrong."

And the pecking begins. A sin
prattling the pristune pen
of femininity, simply because one little banty
had the audacity to press
her tracks in the walk of a cock.