I must have been ten or so

When dad raised a poultry farm

Near our Indian country home

Where life was purely aglow.

 

Though we were not rich enough

We found bliss in all small things,

Loved hatched chicks with fluffy wings

And hens’ droll clucks made us laugh.

 

Chorus:

 

White leghorns, Rhode Island Reds 

Black Minorca and White Rocks

That Dad raised, were his proud breeds.

 

 

Every day the hens laid eggs.

Dad gathered them in green bags.

Sold them in a baker’s shop

Which brought us some bucks and hope.

 

Three poultry years passed by.

Poor health choked dad from his stride.

He gazed at the farm and sighed

We could do nothing but cry.

 

Chorus: White Leghorns…..

 

One sad night Dad said goodbye

With broken heart, and was gone.

Tenebrous, without the sun

We strived, for many a day….

 

Though dad’s farm dreams have withered,

Though many years have passed,

We still prize his farm and breeds  

In sweet memoirs as his broods.

 

Chorus: White Leghorns…..

 

 

Ipe Mathews©  2019-2020