Violet At Dawn

In the little town of Flinchingfield there lived a hen one Violet by name.

A pert Rhode Island Red her presence helped to give the little village fame.

She'd daily preen her feathers in the mirror at the village antique store.

But she doesn't preen them now because you see poor Violet isn't any more.

She used to sit upon a shelf down at the local public house each day.

And decorate the floor beneath her perch but that is just a chickens way.

She'd scratch for bugs around the village monument,a lofty cross of stone.

But thats all in the past my friends because you see poor Violet is gone.

The village council met to talk about this chicked problem in the town.

A member yelled "He'd wring her neck" then swore it was a joke and sat back down.

And Violet kept on scratching never guessing what cruel future lay in store.

But thats all in the past and gone because poor Violet isn't any more.

T'was early in the morning as the sun arose upon yhat fateful day.

Her owners drank their morning tea and then, before they started on their way.

They went out to unlock her coop so Violet's life of freedom could go on. And they found her lifeless body lieing stiff and still and cold as any stone.

They tried to find the killer but he'd done the deed and left no trace and gone.

The police investigated but there were no clues to base an arrest on.

The story made the papers but it's months now and the mystery lingers on.

And in Flinchingfield no ones admitting knowing who killed Violet at dawn.

With profound apologies to Eric Andersen

troll