"The Rooster"

"The Rooster"

On a wint'ry weekend morning, heeding my alarm clock's warning,

And as my feet reluctantly approached the chilly bedroom floor-

All at once there came a ticking, as if boogers one were flicking,

Wooden boogers gently clicking, clicking at my chamber door.

"Just the cats" I mumbled, "with their claws upon the hardwood door.

Just the cats and nothing more."

Shaking off the cloak of slumber, arms and legs as stiff as lumber,

Journeyed I across the tundra which I call my bedroom floor.

Still the pecking was persisting, neither ceasing nor desisting,

Now, becoming more insisting, even louder than before.

Ever louder and annoying than the sound had been before.

'til I thought my ears be sore.

Squatting, peeping through the keyhole as I clutched a metal ski pole

For insurance and protection pending danger was in store.

Squinting, peering, nothing seeing, feeling like I should be fleeing,

Badly needing to go peeing thus I thrust aside the door.

My urinary tract had been the force behind the door.

Bladder courage, nothing more.

And there within the guest room, 'tween the doorway and the restroom,

Sat a chicken with a nametag perched upon a dresser drawer.

This nametag which I mention, just like those seen at conventions,

(might I say a keen invention!) said, "Hello, My Name is Thor".

My kidneys were as shocked as I to meet a bird named "Thor".

Fear, as moisture, hit the floor.

Having dried and changed my bedclothes down the stairs I snuck on tip-toes,

But, the fowl raced down ahead of me and to the TV he did soar.

Firmly parked on Philo's brainchild Thor starts spinning, as if turn-stiled,

Crisply yelped like he'd been rotweil'd, stopped, and spat upon the floor.

Cocked his head and winked discreetly and he spat upon the floor.

As he cried out, "What's the Score?!"

Well, now this was quite perplexing, his demeanor truly vexing,

And I wondered why a rooster would be interested in a score.

"Is it Rugby? Is it Football? Is it Tennis? Is it Baseball?

Is it darts, or, is it Foosball?" I continued to implore.

But, that chicken didn't know the meaning of the word implore.

Still the rooster, "What's the Score?!"

Taking hint from the position of this molting apparition,

Over coffee I began the TV listings to explore.

Then I grabbed the channel changer, that small picture rearranger,

Quickly nodded to the stranger, took my thumb and pressed on "FOR.".

The channels on my TV set advance by pressing "FOR.".

Once more with feeling, "What's the Score?!"

While I played the channel jockey, my remote located Hockey,

And the rooster's eyes became mere slits, enamored with the spor.......t.

It turns out Thor, the rooster, was an avid Redwings Booster,

(the cat walked by, the chicken goosed her, and she gave a sharp retor.......t.

almost any cat, when goosed, will likely give a sharp retor.......t.)

Laughed the rooster, "What a spor.......t".

Once we found the proper station for Detroit's ice recreation-

A non-stop babble issued from the lips, er,...beak, of Thor.

"Put", I then encouraged he, "your money where your mouth should be."

When next we shook and set the fee the bastard spurred me! Gad! The Gore!

I had bet my weekly earnings on this game of pucks and gore.

I screamed for him, "What's the Score?!"

On that day in January, Thor's continued commentary

Was unbroken 'til all sticks were dropped; at last the game was o'er.

Now, my voice, however fleeting, just this once it bears repeating,

Ceased Ol' Thor's infernal bleating, "Your team lost it 6 to 4".

I informed him that his Redwings lost their asses 6 to 4!

Boy, did that shut up Ol' Thor.

Having soaked up all that vi'lence, Thor sat staring off in silence

As he polished off the pretzels, held the bowl aloft for more.

"Wait there's something that I lack bird, answer this before the snack bird,

Aren't you supposed to be a black bird, as in literary lore?
An imposing, winged black creature as in literary lore?

Quoth the rooster, "Hey, it's a living. How 'bout those pretzels?"