Here's another for the song challenge this one is

FRUITA ROOSTA'

The fowl yard, screamed in silence,
The hens all dressed in black,
Cause Mick their favourite rooster,
Was heading for the sack,
Farmer slept in once too often,
Micks neck was for the chop,
With twenty hens to wait upon,
Mick couldn't sleep enough.

The axeman was Lloyd Olsen,
He was a Fruita farmer,
Fruita was a country town,
Down in Colorada',
Lloyd, a thorough killer,
Stretched the rooster's neck,
Straight across the chopping-block,
Mick, a nervous wreck.

The angry axe it glistened,
In the mourning sun,
If anything, be merciful,
The axe was not the one,
So little time to crow, thought Mick,
So little time to live,
The sharp blade kissed, the chopping-block,
Mick felt his old neck give,

The red blood washed his feather down,
His work-wings gave a flap,
Soon enough, he'd be picked up,
And plucked upon a lap,
Soon enough to breath his last,
Soon enough to die,
And he could only gurgle,
He couldn't even cry.

Death comes in creeping seconds,
God lets you stretch, your last,
If death would be more merciful,
It would come on fast,
Last moments stretched to minutes,
The farmer held his breath,
Was he looking at a miracle,
Was this some "voodoo-fest?"

Lloyd reached ,and scooped the wounded bird,
And clutched him, to his chest,
Would he ever see another one,
So tough to be the best?
No beak to feed, just tube to breath,
No sight, no taste, what brain.
Yet still the chicken, lingered on,
The farmer shared his pain.

So easy you can turn your back,
So easy when it's quick,
Twixt' life and death a moment,
Won't make a conscience prick,
Next, Olsen with an eyedropper,
Feeds Mick food through the neck,
And charges 'round the country fairs,
To show, the nervous Mick.

Lloyd Olsen lived infamously,
The people always paid,
To look upon this headless bird,
They'd look then drift away,
Thinking those immortal thoughts,
That men so love to breed,
But Mick the rooster, up and died,
Chokeing on a seed.