Mr Mascellani's Musings

Bwuck! Bwuck! Bwuck!
On this cold green ground, oh woe!
Poor me- a fowl who is not foul
but fine of feather and temperament.
Could this be the winter of my discontent?

But, No! Death be not proud
you shall have no dominion over this little chickadee.
For whom does the axe fall?
Not for me, Bub, no sireee!

I will gather six hundred of the best chickens: hens and roosters,
the finest that you ever did see and then
half a farm, half a farm, half a farm onwards!
Into the Valley of Death, the six hundred (and one) shall go.

Hang on a moment, half a farm, half a farm, half a farm
is three halves of a farm which means
we would have run off the farm.
Come to think of it, going into the “Valley of Death” does seem a bit daft
when one wants to keep on living until old age.

No, we will run those three halves and keep on running.
We are chickens after all.