My father was no farmer but he loved the farmers life,
And he took along my mother as his devoted wife.
He rented an old homestead on Rangitikie Line
Weeds were up to the windows but he said, ”OK! That’s fine!”
He went off to work in town, while mother rolled up sleeves
Attacked the weeds, the windows and webs under the eves.
Each evening he came home again bringing useful stuff
Like little plants ,some garden gloves and once a box of fluff.
The box of fluff turned out to be fifty day old chicks,
“We’ll be self sufficient ”, he cried delightedly, “For in this mix-
There’s bound to be half hens for laying eggs- the rest we’ll eat“
The thought of roasted chicken drove out thoughts of other meat.
The little fluffy yellow things all ran about in haste
We fed them crumbs and something we made up as a paste.
After 6 weeks no difference between the girls and boys,
After 10 weeks we’re no better - deceived by chicken ploys.
At 14 weeks we realised their sexuality was plain!
Not a damned girl in there, not a single Jane!
Fifty bloody cockerels all cock-a-doodling fit to bust
All fighting fit, all testosterone, all fighting in the dust!
Each Saturday we’d pick the biggest and off would come his head
“X” minus 1, remaining cockerels would cheer that he was dead.
They felt no feathered ‘mateyship’ or camaraderie
They simply cock-a-doodled as loud as it can be.
Forty nine feathered fiends went in the baking dish,
Number fifty thought he’d made it and soon he got his wish.
My father, axe in hand went out the fateful day
To find that number fifty had gone and run away.
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Civilisation is a veneer, easily soluble in alcohol!
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