Rooster Roust

Oh, Chanticleer, what a royal sounding name.
It would not have been used by those young lads.
With names they'd not dare say, they would defame,
the fierce bird that could tear through denim clad.

As royalty, his finest plumage flaunts,
iridescent, arched neck and plumy tail,
fear of a clash with him, a young heart haunts,
to gather his flock's eggs would likely fail.

Reluctance, the boys' mother would not accept,
but little brother, bound to earn a chance to please,
picked up the bucket, set to face the fury-swept
monarch of roosters, joined by others, to besiege.

No words to call for help, alas, a tongue-tied child
ran from ferocious flapping wings and spurs.
forward rushing, threatening and wild.
A club-sized branch more useful than a curse.

The little fellow pounded, then, and whacked.
Old Chanticleer, humbled, beat a fast retreat;
the lesser roosters, when a leader lacked,
went back to pecking oats and corn and wheat.

Again, no words to claim his victory,
Jim happily brought the eggs he'd gathered in.
Astounded he had pleased his family,
who had no idea what it took to win.

A brother, fazed, "What changed the rooster group?"
was not to be outdone by little Jim.
He grabbed the bucket, headed for the coop.
Soon, raging roosters put the run on him.

Now, little Jim, in hopes of helping still,
tried to warn in garbled voice, not understood,
"Just whack them." Roosters chasing up the hill,
brother swearing off egg gathering for good.

This story seems fantastic, but is true;
an obstacle that surely made life hard,
he could recount with humor more than rue,
acknowledging more of what is gained than marred.