A clutch of Spinachickens
by Jack Prelutsky
A clutch of SPINACHICKENS
Is fussing in the yard,
They peck their meager pickings,
Their lives are dull and hard.
Except for paltry feathers,
They're mostly leafy green,
Their heads are smooth as leather,
Their brains are not too keen.
Some say that they're distasteful,
While others think they're sweet,
They're never very graceful,
They wilt at signs of heat.
They mill about all korning
Upon their scrawny legs,
Then cluck a single warning
And lay their turquoise eggs.
by Jack Prelutsky
A clutch of SPINACHICKENS
Is fussing in the yard,
They peck their meager pickings,
Their lives are dull and hard.
Except for paltry feathers,
They're mostly leafy green,
Their heads are smooth as leather,
Their brains are not too keen.
Some say that they're distasteful,
While others think they're sweet,
They're never very graceful,
They wilt at signs of heat.
They mill about all korning
Upon their scrawny legs,
Then cluck a single warning
And lay their turquoise eggs.