In that age of aged seasons predating our own's four-square rhyme, a reasonable jape was hatched beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen whose humors ran with jaw-slackening creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking, two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread rumors of an un-chickity chick and the ungodly origins of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay down meekly, and a never stony tongue rolled out its antidote myth to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child may look not-much, but he's divine engendered and miraculous born. Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see he'll grow to be, much-much-more than any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously, who were they to doubt her? The plumed sniggering ceased. But before another grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah glare of right angles, out pecking up a snack, Mother made eye contact with an unfortunate Fate brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy? Left alone at straw-pocket home, waiting for his Hen to return, he starved then decayed to hollow bones, and was never thought of again.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.