Wattle I Do?



When I awoke this morning

there were feathers in my bed.

A beady little pair of eyes

was bulging in my head.


I tried to shout for help

but I just clucked; I couldn’t speak.

My mouth had been supplanted

by a little pointy beak.


My arms had turned to wings.

My comb was difficult to hide.

My mum made eggs for breakfast –

when she scrambled them I cried.


This morning I felt fowl

from my head down to my socks.

I hope that I recover

from this bout of chicken pox.

(published in I Bet I Can Make You Laugh)



back to poems