Or a Modernized Version with New and Improved Curses (from a song challenge):

Flight Of The Chicken by Amos
(Tune: Nell Flaherty's Drake)

Oh, I'm called Missus Flight, which you ought to spell right, 
And I live North of London, out Finchingfield way, 
And I bought a pet hen we named Violet O' Glenn, 
For me daughter to have when she wanted to play. 

'Twas a Rhode Island Red with the prettiest head, 
I would give up my bed just to keep her around, 
So much we did love her, there was no-one above her, 
That we went and insured her for two million pounds. 

This chicken mavournin all heads soon was turning 
She took over the pub, sir, and half of the town 
Now I call down the curses on Flight, Collar and Burgess 
Or the erratic stranger who ran my bird down. 

The sweet little chick had a beak that was thick 
She was friends with the ducklings from the far side of town 
But thanks to vile Paviour there was no one could save her 
When some villain decided to take me chick down. 

May his laws never pass, may the frost nip his ass, 
In drastic depression may his businesses fail, 
May his drafts always bounce, may his cats never pounce, 
May the Council reject him and clap him in gaol! 

May busloads of trippers, with mama's and nippers, 
Come trample his dahlias , make his pacemaker click, 
May a foreclosure lease cause the rapid decease 
Of the monster who murdered my beautiful chick! 

May his pecker stay limp and his wife be a blimp 
And his son be a wimp with a cross-threaded dick 
May his Sundays be stormy and overdraft warnings 
Stack up on his doorstep in piles deep and thick. 

May the tourist-trade swells with their antiquéd bells 
Harass him to hell with a suit for lost trade 
May his house lose its power, his watch lose an hour,. 
His daughter her flower an' his soul lose its shade! 

May his landlord be snide, and likewise his bride 
And his best hand-grown roses blow up and away; 
May his checks be rejected, his phone disconnected 
And his dam'd PDA start to write en Francais 

May his groin spring a sprain, may his picnics all rain 
May his guilt like a lance burn a hole in his head 
May he spavine his back and be tortured and racked 
By hemorrhoid pain, as he lies in his bed 

May his friends borrow money, his jokes not be funny, 
HIs dog turn a traitor and leave him alone, 
May his appetite jade and his draperies fade, 
May his wife turn to ice and his mistress to stone! 

Now, I'm done with my cursin', for I'm not a hard person 
And I've always believed we should live and let live, 
And things are much brighter since the damned underwriter 
Agreed to the sum the insurance should give. 
So it's me and my Harry to the far Baleares, 
No more we will tarry in the cold and the fog 
And that hen-killing wank, well, I'll send him my thanks 
For getting us out of that Finchingfield bog!