A Ballad

It happened now in ages past--
A week has passed since that ago
When east coast lawns shared their repast
With green, whilst we had snow,
And waking he to seeing fiery red
Where brown and wire of chicken coop should be
Instead, he rising from his Sunday bed
Of sleep went racing out, bed clothes flying free
And little caring where they fell. Not yet dead,
There they squawked. Helpless, hot,
They crowded there and crowed
Their pain to the bursting heat, fought
Their neighbors the the coolest side. The road
Had not yet born engines flaring when he
Raced flames and clipped a door in their abode
Through which they panted, clucking free
And hurt not more than a singed span
Of proud-held comb. But he
Looked on his gold-licked arms and
Wondered at the scorch-ed skin with boiling filled--
For heroes feel not flame, nor stand
To see their Chickens burnt or killed.