Mr Mascellani's Musings

There once was an old lady
who owned a white rooster
which she took for long walks in a black pram.

One windy evening,
as she sat on her verandah,
cradling the rooster in her arms,
a neighbourhood crowd began to gather around.
She bore them no mind
and spoke to the rooster in such a soft voice
that nobody could hear what she said

“She’s crazy!” yelled some yellow-toothed kid
and the neighbors all laughed
and threw rubbish and insults at the old lady.

Covered in garbage, she began to sing to the rooster.
But now her voice was a river of blood
that washed away all of the neighbours’ secret pains and fears.
Their laughter and everything else stopped, even the wind.
There was only her voice.

Only her voice singing an old Irish ballad
as the rooster slept in her arms.