Beech Tree News Network

I never tried my hand at poetry much. But Mrs. Kitchens out at Leetown once had a rooster named D-Gall. We liked Mrs. Kitchens a lot. When Bett and I would visit her, she’d always entertain us with the exploits of D-Gall (de gaulle). She gave him that name, “Because he was so proud and dignified.”When I got first wife Bett a big rooster for her birthday, she promptly named him D-Gall. He stands in the middle of our kitchen table. He has good manners. I wrote a poem about him- absent his good manners:
Growing up we had a rooster named D-Gall
That big dude was long as he was tall
Though he had a stately name, he was a chicken all the same
And he did what chickens do when he felt the “call”.
My nightly chore was to check all doors and windows, right before we all went off to bed. Bring in our faithful dog named Junior, and put out our yellow cat that we called Fred. Now Ma and Pa, they went to bed before me, and left to me the task of doing all. But before his snoring took on sounds of thunder, I could always hear Pa beller down the hall: “Did you bring ole Junior in from out yonder; put out that lazy cat by name of Fred?” and just before he doused the light for slumber; another question popped into Pa’s head: “Did you turn the rooster- turn the rooster? Did you make sure his backsides to the wall? Despite his fancy name, He’s a rooster just the same; He’d just as soon ‘purge-out’ at city hall.”
Now ole D-Gall he had a real bad habit. He’d sneak inside our back porch after hours. Through a big hole in the screen, that was surely left unseen, he roosted on the edge OF OUR BARREL OF FLOUR.  “Turn the rooster, turn the rooster, you know that he don’t know his north from south, turn the rooster, turn the rooster; or we’re bound to have a FOWL taste in our mouth!”
Back then we put our flour in at wheat harvest. Pap drove the mules and wagon to the mill. Behind the wagon seat we sat on sacks of wheat; and we’d shoot rocks at anything that was still. We’d dream of dark brown biscuits with Ma’s gravy, and on to sopping sorghum last of all. But one thing crossed our minds while we were dreamin’; how would we cure the habit of D-Gall? We thought of ways that we might solve his problem. And be done with uncouth manners once and for all. But failing to come up with any answers, we could not figure out about D-Gall. We could’ve taken the scoundrel out and shot him, or got a big sharp axe and let it fall. But after some discretion, we knew not his confession; we couldn’t risk the soul of ole D-Gall. So turn the rooster, turn the rooster; make sure his ole keesters’s to the wall. Turn the rooster, turn the rooster. That barrel of flour has got to last ‘till fall.  Kindest Regards…