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from the Humorous Writings of William Fenton Tyree, Sr.
Old "Speck" is dead, Her final squawk is squoke. The cook, with ruthless hand, her neck has broke. Forgotten, all her virtues and her worth, Her chicken soul has left this sinful earth. "Speck" was a noble hen. I sing her praise. For oft' she cheered me with her minstrel lays. And while her lays were seldom, toward the last, I credit her for laying in the past. What boots it now, how much she scratched and clucked? Her juicy bones into the pot were chucked. As if in honest protest, she was tough; She boiled and stewed, but never quite enough. From early morn 'till summer's dewy eve, She stewed and boiled and caused the cook to grieve, For dinner late and vittles' growing cold, And all because old "Speck" was tough and old. Sad are my thoughts as I consider "Speck", And learn a lesson from her broken neck. She gave her life and all her youthful days To man's enjoyment, health and happy ways, And yet, un-honored for her honest toil, Man put her in the pot and let her boil,- Boil 'till her flesh was tender,- good to eat,- And then beneath the table stuck his feet, And raised his eyes to heaven and offered thanks For tissue falling off her bony shanks, And smiled and smirked as he consumed her neck, And then - forgot her. Dear old martyred "Speck". The Potato Patch Poet
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