The Fate of the Seven
Cristy A. Gesink
(with minor modifications 9/8/2010)
We bought ourselves some pheasant chicks
One bright morning in May.
They rode home in the car with us;
Seven there were that day.
We put their box in the kitchen
So we could watch them grow.
We thought that they’d be safe inside–
How little did we know!
The smallest chick was first to die,
Pecked to death by her peers
Sadly we took her from the box
As her fellow chicklets jeered.
Remorseless were the cannibals
As havoc they pursued.
From six to five our numbers fell;
Then four, then three, then two.
Two we had for several days
‘Til we began to hope
The cruel carnage, lo, had ceased–
Perhaps these two could cope!
Alas! we found to our dismay
It was not meant to be.
Number two was shut in the door
And silenced instantly.
The final chick, in fear of death,
Lonely, scared, and desperate,
Gathered up himself to fly; he
Made for the door and missed it.
Down he dropped like an iron ball;
Our hopes lay on the floor.
The last of the chickies we had bought
Died by missing a door!
Perhaps we learned our lesson then;
Perhaps we never will.
But this experience is one
That we remember still.