An Ode to Hertha

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I know of an ex-batt called Hertha,
The most beautiful chicken on Eartha,
She is under the weather,
In beak, claw and feather
(Perhaps to an egg she can’t give birtha?)

Her Mummy is terribly fuddled,
As Hertha just sits looking huddled
And culinary treats
Go unpecked at her feet
While she survives on just being cuddled.

So well-wishers offer predictions
As to what may be Hertha’s affliction-
Does she have a soft egg?
Is it lice? Scaly leg?
Or a sweetcorn and pasta addiction?

Is her crop feeling warm and compacted?
Is she lucid or fairly distracted?
Is she straining to poo?
Is her comb turning blue?
Or her (rare) hens’ teeth now impacted?

But lo! Hertha has suddenly rallied!
She is languidly nibbling some salad
An olive or two,
Canapes? “Just a few
If you please, then I think I’ve quite had it”.

But was our dear Hertha a-faking
Whilst her owner was trembling and quaking?
Or in reality
Was it just PMT,
(Or pre-Moult-strual tension), awaking?

If so then the cure that will ease her,
Is simply a bag of Moult-easers,
Because every girl knows
PMT only goes
With the help of some chocolate to please her!

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