Day 227: The Chicken Coop Incident

The Chicken Coop Incident
Matt Zurbo

Dedicated to Frank, the calm in the storm! Thank you, brother!! 


Mr Fox was smart, if not dapper, oh, it’s true.
With a moustache and vest, sometimes he’d sing, too.

Occasionally, he’d prance, but usually it was tippy toes,
on which he’s sneak in, to eat your toes and nose.

One day, Mr Fox got an idea.
“I’d like to eat some of what I most fear!”

“Farmer Stew,” said Little Rabbit, trapped in a cage.
Kept alive for sport, and to wear a fox’s rage.

“I can’t eat Farmer Stew!” Mr Fox romped.
“He has two dogs, a shotgun, big boots that stomp!”

“I’ll eat his chickens instead! What a great idea!
From chooks, at least, I have nothing to fear!”

“They give Farmer Stew eggs, which make him happy.
What a plan, what a plan! It fills me with glee!”

Dr Hoo, the owl, was wise, oh it was smart!
It listened to classical music, and flew like a dart.

Dr Hoo knew better; “Don’t you try it, Fox, mate.
Farmer Stew has six pigs, guarding the chook gate!”

But Mr Fox was quicker, a bully par excellence.
Under the full moon he leapt, and spoke his ten cents.
(Fox, clutching owl.)

“I have all the tools, bolt-cutters and files.
Get me into that coop, or I’ll eat you alive.”

So Dr Hoo did as was done to him, to poor Old Mouse,
who, with a nervous squeak, approached the hen house.

Old Mouse came crawling, past Busybody Toad,
sleeping Go-Goanna and wombat, on the old road.

“Psst, psst,” squeaked Old Mouse, to three Lawyer Bats in suits.
“Give this message to the pigs, or my neck’s in a noose!”

Old Mouse often bred, many tasty young.
The Lawyer Bats knew, a deal could be done.

“Scree, scree,” they whispered, to the Big Pig,
sleeping in mud, as all good pigs did.

“We have a message, from cunning Mr Fox.
If you want to eat some chicken, let him pick locks.”

The pigs quietly argued, amongst their dirty selves,
with a “Grunt” and a “Squeal” they stilled their pig bells.

“Just how much can sly Mr Fox eat?
He doesn’t need those chickens, to feel pampered and neat.”

“Who cares, who cares! Chicken at last!
Let’s do what he wants, and gorge on their parts!”

“But wait,” said the Piglet Digbert, on roller skates.
“Isn’t our job, to keep chickens safe?”

“That’s right!” snapped Rusty Dawg. “I can’t guard the whole farm.
It’s not hard to keep the chickens safe, just oink an alarm.”

“But chicken…!” drooled Big Pig. “How good is that!”
Nothing else mattered, other than getting fat.

So pig, bat, mouse, owl, hatch up a plan,
while Mr Fox strolled in, like only a fox can.

Tapping his paws, and clicking his nails,
Mr Fox looked cool, as a fox does without fail.

Inside he was thinking; I should just steal one,
But that’s not my style, I’ll kill the rest just for fun.

The pigs will be blamed, and put in a stew.
If they’re hung out to be smoked, I might eat bacon, too!

Fences were jumped, winks were made.
Bolt cutters cut, hens were afraid.

Then Mr Fox, ran into Horse.
Horse had no other name. Horse was just Horse.

Chickens and roosters, stood on his head and his back.
A big stomp or two, drove Mr Fox back.

Backwards and forward, the battle, it went.
All the chickens thought Horse, was Heaven sent.

“It looks like a dance,” whispered Sue Snake,
who had bet on the outcome, a quite healthy stake.

“Indeed,” said White Tail Possum, the marsupial DJ,
who fired up a tune, to dance the battle away.

There was hissing, and clucking and braying a lot,
but frogs grooved about, and kangaroos bop-hopped.

Farmer Stew came out, letting off his shotgun.
Horse stomped Mr Fox’s tail, as he made to run.

Next morning Black Crow crawed in the day,
all lazy and tough, in a real crow sort of way.

Rodger Rooster followed suit, the hens all clucked.
Only one, poor darling, had run out of luck.

Full with chook Mr Fox hid, behind an old stump,
but where once there was a tail, was now just a lump.

“One day,” he whispered, “I’ll get revenge…”

But the pigs were too bright, to be fooled again.
(Farmer sitting outside at fold-out table, eating bacon, fox tail on a pole behind him. Chooks casually pecking ground around him. One or two sitting on his head, or shoulders.)    


The End

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