These roosters proudly roam –
the sun for their heads’ comb.
They rise from night dew’s rinse
in purple, fold on fold,
and strut about the yard –
speckled, ashen, gold
and black – each one a lord
of daybreak, and with powers
to bless the dawn, panache
of paths and gates and towers.
These wardens – Petrine, brash
and awful – guard the sties.
They taunt grand distant ranks,
cut others down to size –
such fornicating swanks,
such evil gold-eyed gods
on tribunals of trash,
guffawing at all odds,
these wardens, Petrine, brash,
patrons of dawn’s despair,
with loud and savage airs,
with bugles and alarums
of sin they hound so well,
echoing Satan’s charms
and laughter when they yell
across the plains of hell.

Project Details

  • Date June 23, 2015
  • Tags Roosters