A pastoral ballad – by William Blighsworth
(Not suitable for vegetarians)
Oh blithe young chicken of the yard
So happy and so free,
How handsome are you to regard
Beneath the spreading tree.
All through the day you peck and cluck
And vainly flap your wings,
Unmindful of the dubious luck
This fateful hour brings.
For by the eve at Pissflaage House
Sure as the sun doth rise,
Young Sam will dine with his good spouse
Upon spatchcock surprise!
The order sent at half past ten
By twelve had been received;
Your merry brethren in the pen
Are soon to be bereaved.
One spatchcock gay for the account
Of thruppence ha’penny;
Alas, this pitiful amount
Is deemed the worth of thee.
Sweet hen, how joyfully you roam
And frollic in the glade,
While Farmer Jones sits on a stone
Sharpening his blade.
He casts about his beady eyes
Considering his prey;
Which lusty spatchcock to surprise
This fine September day?
Run little hen! Away from here!
Or be forever damned.
For Farmer Jones is drawing near
A hatchet in his hand.
Too late, too late! The deed is done,
The blade its mark has found.
Unlucky bird, give up your run,
Your head lies on the ground.
And here comes Maud, the farmer’s wife
So plump and round and mean;
With her man-hands and carving knife
She is the spatchcock queen!
She’s grabbed you by your jet black tail,
Is to the kitchen bound;
While in her wake, a glistening trail
Of blood forms on the ground.
How gross she is I do declare,
How powerful and stout,
And how she brings this strength to bear
To pluck your feathers out.
Expertly she makes the cut
Your giblets to remove,
Then gives them to the waiting mutt;
Indeed he doth approve!
Upon the dressing board so cold
Your sorry carcass lies,
Two deft incisions and behold:
Your backbone is excised.
And to these vile abuses that
This day you did receive,
She adds one more and spreads you flat
Then calmly takes her leave.
The courier arrived at two
And not a minute late;
So in the larder now must you
Your final doom await.
At Pissflaage house the lights are low
The hour is half past eight,
And you, sweet spatchcock all aglow
Lie roasting in the grate.
Dear spatchcock you explored the land
On Bluebell Farm estate,
And never could you understand
That this would be your fate!
Yet you shall have a second life
For but another hour,
As Samuel and his pretty wife
Your golden flesh devour.
What joy for me to know that still
as whence you came from birth,
So as a unit brown you will
Return unto the earth.
