Sunday Stanza: Chester the Combative

Let me tell you a tale from my younger days,
Of a rooster who earned both my fear and my praise.
A bantam, no taller than half of a boot,
But with swagger and spite in a feathered red suit.

Dad fetched him from a fella down
In Carbon County’s dusty town.
He came boxed up, all calm and neat,
Just cardboard, holes, and cockerel feet.

At first, he seemed gentle, serene as a dove—
A fine little fowl you could cuddle and love.
But the moment he met his fine harem of hens,
Something snapped in that bird—he abandoned all pretense.

Like a match to dry sagebrush, his fury was lit,
And the coop turned to chaos the moment he hit.
His spurs, curled like scimitars, gleamed in the light—
A warrior’s weapons, prepared for a fight.

His tail was a pennant of shimmering flame,
And the devil himself might have whispered his name.
He detested red clothing—it triggered his wrath,
And he’d charge with precision, no mercy, no math.

A blur of intent, a flash from below—
And he’d peck at your shins like a foe in a show.
His breath, I imagined, was sulfur and smoke,
His crow like a curse that the underworld spoke.

He’d launch from the shadows with lightning-quick speed,
A poultry torpedo on two little feet.
But beneath all the fury and fury alone,
There was something uncanny, uniquely his own.

A pride, a defiance, a boldness unshaken—
The spirit of something not easily taken.
And truth be told—though he left me in pain,
Though he bloodied my ankles and scrambled my brain—
I still look back fondly on that feathered pest,
Who fought like a lion with puffed-out red chest.

So, here’s to dear Chester, that rooster possessed—
May he roost up in heaven (or hell if it’s best).
For no barnyard’s complete, in this world or the next,
Without a small beast who keeps everyone vexed.

DocBott