Now that my hens are well and snugly housed,
And given cosy nests in which to lay,
It seems their gratitude has been aroused;
Our egg supply increases day by day.
And yet, I vow, when I their house designed
No sordid thought of eggs was in my mind.
Maybe I seem a trifle too inclined
To brag about a very simple feat.
Yet strange ideas crowd into my mind
When I sit down to scan my morning sheet,
And read of other builders who should be
Goliaths in comparison with me.
Their mighty undertakings, I've no doubt—
Vast railway lines that span a continent,
And other matters that I read about—
Are apt to cause much wordy argument.
Yet I, who calmly built a house for fowls,
Can feel contempt for these unseemly howls.
For when they move to build, unholy shouts
Go up to Heaven from opponent throats;
The Ins are ever brawling with the Outs;
And both are scheming sordidly for votes.
They build not as true builders, such as I,
Who build for love, and scorn the trade they ply.
