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He is a male fowl and big too

They are hens numbered two

Day by day, near the hill

They he mounts against their will

Afterwards he flaps each wing

Feeling proud as a king

Unknowing that on this fateful day

His slaughter sentence was underway

Now he dwells in a pot of stew

To feed some guests he never knew

While both hens duly incubate

The bastard eggs they laid of late