Somebody in the neighborhood
cut the red comb of Rooster Good,
and the overgrown wattle too;
whoever did, nobody knew.
What’s sure is that the spritely stance
is now lost in his courtship dance.
His dawn tenor arias so proud
now low pitched and hoarse but still loud.

Perhaps those hands that held the knife
Hated that ***** enjoy free life
or had eyes burned on seeing red
or pinkish plume on bloodied head
A rooster’s form must do conform
with all rules of cockfighting norm.
Humans dictate how chooks should look
I should have asked their Holy Book.

And so dear Old Rooster’s de-crowned
Has lighter head, a king dethroned
beard-like wattle, like rouge wisdom
swish swings no more like pendulum
The pride is gone like in folks’ tales
as more mates follow full-combed males
Now fewer hens his harem hosts
mean fewer eggs for breakfast toasts.