Jungle fowl calls in strident voice,
demanding sunrise and sunset,
impatiently clicking spurred heels.
Head held high, voice slicing the sky,
night-dark feathers proudly preened,
gleaming tough metallic tints.
Boasting of brushes with tigers,
meals of cruel clawed insects,
the salty eyes of long-dead fish.
Crowing for red revolution,
shouting for pride and jungle-law,
rebellion and rule of the roost.
But huddled in cages, pale bred to endless appetite for cereals,
panting on fat thighs in sun battered, blood-splattered market places,
his descendants do not hear or heed but stare dead-eyed into nothingness,
boasting only soft white meat and pale efficient feed conversion.