Short Story: A Hen That Couldn't Jump

Short Story: A Hen That Couldn't Jump

She's always used to be pecked,

Which caused her to become wrecked.

She was different, so to speak,

She didn't care about any other chick,

Nor did the almighty cockerel she obey,

Whom she considered to be a bit gay.

Once upon an autumn lunchtime,

Clucking to herself in a strange rhyme,

She turned her little head to me,

And whispered in a high pitched squeak,

That if only it was up to her to control her fate,

There would be no garden gate,

An obstacle she couldn't remove,

Oh, how many things she wanted to improve!

She'd much rather be a subterranean hen,

Living in a cosy underground den,

Lying on her back,

Waiting for a snack,

To jump into her tiny beak,

Becoming a bubble and squeak.

But then came Alice, upset by the hen's weep,

Boy, the girl was moved by the tears deep,

And with her heart soft as a she-mouse's belly,

Opened the gate for the miserable Machiavelli.

The hen just clucked,

In her feathers ducked,

And jumped onto the wall,

Like a cricket ball.

Duh, she's independent, you know,

And doesn't need no help at all.

And that is the end of the story

Of a hen that couldn't jump.