1

On the surface was where the poor creature was
lain,
Escaping the death beneath— the deadly claws of rain.
In a moment he finds himself in an acrid tin of
husk,
Of which remains a placid torment, til used at the river at dusk,

2

There he was, a queer harrow voluntarily perfecting an unpaid job—
Rewarded by mother hen's lethal striking arrow
And conflagrating her mob,
Can still hear his cries for justice in their churning gizzards;...