The Hen's Complaint

Beside an incubator stood The would-be mother of a brood. With drooping wings and nodding head, These are the clucked-out words she said: 'O, vile invention of the age, You fill me with a burning rage! Unfeeling monster, moved by steam, You rob me of life's sweetest dream! Deprived of offspring which I crave, I must go childless to my grave. My aching wings which long to cover A chirping brood of nestlings over, No more may know that comfort sweet, Since chickens may be hatched by heat. Three weeks of quiet expectation (Full many a flighty hen's salvation) I am denied, for now men say A hen should be content to lay, And furnish eggs to incubate, And setting hens are out of date. Alas, for such a cruel fashion-' The angry fowl paused, choked with passion, While from behind a strong hand caught her And doused her in a tub of water.