The Hen and the Peacock
by Anna Evans
You are as drab as a pile of sodden leaves,
little brown hen, beside your suitor’s glory.
Still, he’s chasing you, and that’s the story
most girls want: how the heroine believes
the mirror shows her swarthy, fat, unclean,
but once the hero comes, her eyes and hair
will start to shine if HE finds beauty there,
sees her at last how she’s dreamed of being seen.
Little brown hen, born to peck on the ground,
don’t confuse this with love—you’re merely flattered.
Someone may have acted as though you mattered,
but you are still as plain as the earth is round.
Retreat behind your chicken wire. Above you
at least the moon will not pretend to love you.
