The Lone Tom. Day 79.

He’s a lone Tom,
down the hill.
With swinging swag,
he’s hopeful still.

He waits for hens,
or more, or all.
To be his love,
And so he’ll call.

He gobbles and,
he cheers quite loud.
No matter what,
there is no crowd.

He roams alone,
and hangs his head.
Until his wattles,
lose their red.

The groups pass by,
and will not eye.
Or notice him,
to see him cry.

Yet, still . . .

He puffs his chest,
and flops his snood.
Swings his wattles,
still in the mood.

Then there’s a fan,
around his back.
Yet that is when,
we hear the crack.

From left appears,
the orange hat.
A toothy grin,
his belly’s fat.

Lone Tom is down
And I just cry
Why did my new friend,
have to die?

Happy Thanksgiving.

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