You strut away, your feathers held high
Subservient lady friends giving the eye.
And as you preen we surely know
That you're the star of this little show.
Monarch of the barn, stud of the walk
You flap your wings, you talk the talk.
A snobby gobble, beard raised in distain,
You turn your back, your intent is plain.
Your posture assumes the best of you
With arrogance as it's only clue.
Today you rock! Tomorrow you roll...
I'm sure you'll taste good with a cranberry mold.
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