Protracted shadows fade
In the absence of the sun
A roosters rabble hushes
The meeting is begun

The Majors shuffled footsteps
Issue hope in the face of despair
Ascending stage, commanding
A true, soulful stare

“Mr Jones, our crooked ruler
Shackles bonds and cages,
He tore us from our homes
To protect his sacred wages.

The food he calls his favour
Not a fruit of his goodwill
Merely the investment
The product is the kill

Believe me when I tell you
That one day he will eat us
After invading every night
To steal the newborn foetus.”

Meanwhile in the kitchen
Power hungry men
Plan the nights offensive
To mute the meddling hen

“No voice, machine or weapon
Major, what are we to do?
No certificate, map or contract
To claim what we are due.”

Pain and promise met the plot
Born from frustration
A sacrificial lamb
And the hopes of a nation

Uncovered on the platter
With a smile upon his face
Our heroic hen concealing
Arsenic, deadly laced

05/07/2002

Posted on 07/05/2002
Copyright © 2024 Phil P Robson