Capon

In farmyard chorus, loud and shrill, The capon holds a different skill: No cock-a-doodle breaks his rest, He’s plump and soft, supremely blessed.

No strutting spur, no fierce reply, Just gentle pecking, low and shy. While hens squabble over corn and grain, He seeks the sun-drenched, quiet plain.

The farmer favours his calm grace, A softer meat, a finer case. For Sunday roast or festive pie, He’s the choice where delicacies lie.

No dawn’s alarm from his quiet throat, Just peaceful dreams in straw-filled note. A titbit of the weekend’s cheer, The capon’s charm is crystal clear.