now hold—i say, hold on now.
hawk or no hawk, it ain't right
for that boy to go terrorizin'
older folks like that
shootin' them with arrows,
callin' himself big chickenhawk
engine and dancin' with
his feathered head-piece
like some crazy mohawkin
so what if his kind hunts and
eats what we are--he's still a boy!
i tell him, you can't—i say,
can't go makin' more noise than
a couple of skeletons throwin'
a fit on a tin roof, sonny
and it ain't—i say, ain't smart to
go round bitin' folks bigger than you
that's how you get hurt
Miss Prissy tell me all the time
to let the boy be; that at his age
and i always tell my lammy pie
there's a whole—i say, whole 'lotta
eggs with the crazy notion they're
too fresh for they own yolk
at his age, he need—i say, need
to learn to mind us better, honey bun
and stop this stuff bout survival of
the fittest and all that other nonsense
Barnyard Dawg ain't—i say,
ain't much better for yokin'
the boy along with his mischief,
tellin him new ways to trap me
so i tell sonny he been lied to
for so long, and that all—
i say, all this time i was a horse
instead of a rooster
then i point to that silly dawg
smilin' like a boozehound
after badgerin' ol' foghorn
there—i say, there's your
chicken, boy. all four legs.
go on over and taste him, sonny.
i'm sure you'll like it.