The Crow That the Crow Crowed by S. Conant Foster

“Ho! ho!”
Said the crow:
“So I’m not s’posed to know
Where the rye and the wheat
And the corn kernels grow—
Oh! no, Ho! ho!

“He! he!
Farmer Lee,
When I fly from my tree,
Just you see where the tops
Of the corn-ears will be
Watch me!
He! he!”

With a lurch,
Flopped the bird from his perch
As he spread out his wings
And set forth on his search—
His search— Switch-swirch.

How it rang,
How the small bullet sang
As it sped through the air—
And the crow, with a pang,
Went spang— Chi-bang.

The Tail Feathers.

Now know,
That to crow
Often brings one to woe;
Which the lines up above
Have been put there to show,
And so, Don’t crow.