Old Poetry Poetry • Poets • Essays • Forums •

A Fledgling

"Why is it, little chick," I said
"That you so ragged go?"
"Alas," he answered, "father's dead
And mother cannot sew.


"She does her very best to lay,
Till I have learned to crow;
But bread is rising every day,
And eggs, alas, are low."

Leave a guest comment (subject to review)

    : Comment:

    Name: (required)
    Email: (required, hidden from spam)