So, you don’t lay eggs,
those golden things,
food of the gods;

you don’t bow at my feet,
cackling joyfully,
like my speckled brown beauties;

but you sing the new day,
and keep singing until dusk,
my farmyard musician;
you flaunt your golden tail feathers,
barnyard couture;
and flap your wings and rise
in an avian ballet.