The Rooster of Dusseldorf

Posted by Erik Moshe on Monday, March 2, 2015 Under: Rhymed Verses
A quiet boy at home in his shantytown, his face painted with a harrowing frown
The silence voided - guard down - when parents weren't around
Afternoon of barren burgundy clouds.
Geoff the Butcher tossed out the bad meat of the day,
alerting the dispersion of hounds, street dogs. German and proud.
The silent boy had an aversion to working. Hibernated in his church of a house.
Lips sealed, like someone had been abusing him - turning him out
"The ones you've always got to be worried about..."
The ones who could hold the world in their hands, but would burn it to ground
Nothing about his soul was sacred. His self motivation wasn't earnestly wound,
far from the level required to shoulder the burden of a Hercules mound.
Proverbs say, the older a person, they prefer to be roused
by an alarm clock--or a call to action, far from the smog of modern traffic
So they might wake up bright & early, take a jog, or find a lawful practice
The boy's backyard was half dead grass, an empty hen-house, & a moldy cabin
Jumping grasshoppers marched in bastions; the boy would club and smash them
Why, you ask? It's probably because he refused to take leaps in his life
Never had a friend, nor a sport he liked to play, he was seemingly trite.
This little chap was a treasonous tyke. How'd his head remain so dreamy and light?
The mythical Rooster of Dusseldorf had been hiking on a Summer day
Up the prairie grounds of his town, sniffing the industrial air and bundled hay
It felt some hunger pangs, and decided to crow loudly:
The boy heard the crowing from his backyard, jolted awake, & started to lose his cool
He stepped outside, ready to roast this fella into a hunan stew
"You two-bit scrooge! Keep it down, I'm trying to sleep!
This is my day off from summer school. You're putting me in a putrid mood!"
The Rooster was highly offended, and began to rustle his feathers
He'd only been accustomed to a select few acquaintances:
Hard working folk. The humblest shepherds. This kid was a mumbling lesser!
It crowed in a dignified tone:
"Who are you, mischievous child who isn't out and about?
Shouldn't you be playing, exploring, plotting, renounced from your house?"
"Afraid not, I'm cut from a different cloth," the boy replied, "...the lackadaisical kind."
"A boy with an impressive vocabulary for his young age," said the Rooster.
"It's captivating! Perhaps you're biding your time,
to really put some effort into your studies, and not into this feeble jargon
Achieving. Not just talking. That glorious feeling when pencil meets the parchment!"
The boy cackled in his periwinkle pajamas. He'd had enough of this supposedly regal harlot.
"Clearly, you must be retarded."
He swung his garden shovel at the Rooster's beak, and starched him.
No more wake up calls for him. Life's expectations could go to hell.
He was mostly sick of it. Poultry simmered in a silver tin,
joined by brooding music from the devil's instruments,
From that day forth, the boy pledged to forever be a chicken shit.

In : Rhymed Verses 

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