Maybe You've Heard This StoryI'm still at the chicken farm.
I may not ever leave.
I came to buy a dozen eggs,
But now I sit and grieve.
The farmer, as those old jokes go,
Had daughters. He had three,
And each was truly beautiful,
And all seemed keen on me.
I showed up in the waning light,
Obtained my eggs and meant
To drive back home to scramble them,
But my car, old and bent,
Refused to start. I looked at him.
I begged to spend the night,
And search for someone to repair
My car with morning's light.
His narrowed eyes made very clear
That he distrusted me.
“Sleep in the hayloft, if you like.
Don't touch my daughters three,”
And I, in fact, had no such aims.
I'd planned to drive away,
And would have, if I could have,
But my bad luck made me stay.
The daughters fed me mutton stew
And fresh-baked bread and pie.
They circled me like scavengers,
But I, afraid to die,
Crept up into the hayloft
When the moon had claimed the night
And meant to sleep all by myself,
But, well before the light,
Each daughter came and laid with me,
And I could not demur.
Each got her share of little Willy.
I could please all three.
Then, in the morning, someone came
To fix my battered car.
She did, and I intended to make sure that I was far
From the three daughters and their dad,
But one confessed her sin,
And that old father, shotgun wielding,
Bade me come back in
To wait until the little sticks
Determined if our play
That night, up in the hayloft,
Would send babies on their way.
The sticks said “yes” for all of them,
Which I could not believe,
But, anyway, that's why I'm stuck here,
Doomed to never leave.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 37 times
Written on 2020-07-27 at 01:39
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