by Dreama Weaver
Every day, it starts again
A warbled screech, my feathered bane.
The sun’s not up, but he sure is,
That rooster lives to scream “showbiz!”
He crows like he’s announcing doom,
And I sincerely hope it’s coming soon.
No gentle coo, no pastoral charm,
Just full-blown barnyard fire alarm.
I’ve counted sheep, I’ve begged and pleaded,
But that bird’s ego remains undefeated.
He struts like he’s the lord of dawn,
A fluffy tyrant in the neighbor’s lawn.
The neighbors shrug, yelling “He’s just a bird!”
But I have thoughts that shouldn’t be heard.
He crows at dawn, he crows at noon,
He crows, and crows, and crows, and croons.