Lament for Cuthbert, a Deserving Fowl

The fourth page: smeared with smelly green, and the writing blurred by salty tears. The hand is clearly shaken.

All great philosophers of the ages beg
To know: which came first? Chicken or egg?
But whatever the answer to this exciting debate,
Its greatest descendant is now very late.

Cuthbert, O Cuthbert, how lost am I,
Without your squawks, your gleaming eye,
Your tubular neck, your feathered wing,
Oh, what sadness your end does bring.

How noble in life, were you as a cock,
What joy did you cause, with the sound of your "bock"?
The world is dark, dull in the extreme,
Without you around, to make it a dream.

And yet with what strength were you ready to fight,
To face down your foe, to do what is right?
To save your poor master, with a squawk and a peck,
To let him escape, while a trog wrung your neck.

But vengeance was ours! Death came to that trog,
A watery grave, there in the bog.
O Cuthbert, O Martyr, you died not in vain.
What Avlis has lost, Hades shall gain.


From The Collected Writings of Izrick.