COCK, COCK, MI LAY OH! Part 2

                             COCK, COCK, MI LAY OH! 

                                                             By HEN ZINGA HEN ZINGA

Part 2

Straightway, Capt. Hen Semble summoned all the adult hens of egg-bearing age, even Prince Cock of the Walk’s newly-wed poulet, white-feathered Miss Hen Amour who was still flushing all over from the activities of love, for a parley of the Hen Party. Madam Hen Sue, clerk of the court, explained that it was a most urgent matter needing their full attention. Some henthused, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” and others hencored “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as they rushed to the place of congress.

The Chimmy Chucks, the singing group consisting of four singers, arrived first. They were quickly followed by Hen Quirer, the ubiquitous journalist who always had her ears too close to the ground for the comfort of the others. Then came Patrol leader Hen Camp,  Hen Visage, fortuneteller and acclaimed beauty, Dr. Hen Dimitriosis, gynaecologist, whose fibroids caused her eggshells to emerge with streaks of blood, Warrant Officer 11 Hen Sign, Sgt. Hen Circle and surveyor Hen Compass.

Lady Hen Title and Deaconess Hen D’Ever the hyperactive, ruffled-feathered sensay bird with an ever twitching beak came in together. Security guard, Officer Hen Danger was there with the new accountant, Miss Hen Counter and Mrs. Hen Velop, the postmistress who handed a letter to the car parts dealer, Miss Hen Tire Lee. Millionairess Hen Rich was engaged in a deep discussion of mystical matters with Hen Nybody, her twin Hen Nyone and Hen Terprise, trader in feather pillows.

Hen Tomology who studied insects and refused to eat any, sat beside Hen Conium, who was was very generous in praising others. Hen Eema, whose obsession with a clean colon drove her to constant douching, was discussing insurance matters with Hen Sure, the insurance agent. Hen Shroud the undertaker sat by herself as did Hen Uresis whose tail was always wet. 

Hen Enzyme the nutritionist, Hen Vironmentalist who was president of Protection of the Environment and Sanitation, sat silently together. Hen Teritis always plagued with  tummy problems, diagnosed as inflammation of the intestines, tried in vain to avoid the eyes of Hen Grave who was not only an artist, but also a grave digger. The latter, full of smiles, went and sat beside her.

Standing apart were Hen Throne who longed to be royal to the point that she thought Tarrus Riley wrote his big hit, “She’s Royal” for her and her ‘stocious’ daughter, Hen Noble, who strutted about the place with her beak in the air. Hen Title, keeper of Deeds at Land Commission was sharing some land concerns with Hen Suite, the realtor who specialized in condominiums and high-priced apartment buildings in prime residential areas of the barnyard.

Fashion designers Mesdames Hen Vogue and Hen Close were quietly talking to Madam Hen Naa, the feather dresser who used only natural dyes on her customers’ plumes. Big Mama Hen Kerchief with her downy head looking like a bonnet, tiptoed in to stand beside Olympic swimming champion Hen Dive. Police Officers Hen Twine, Hen Gage, Hen Snare, Hen Trap and Hen Cumber stood around, watching the group gather. Dancer Hen Tertainer moved from one leg to the other, wishing she had four to accomplish the new complicated dance she was mentally choreographing. Hen Bane, distinguished by her unpleasant herbal body odour, stood by herself as usual.

They all trooped in, singly or in groups, black hens, white Leghorn hens, brown hens, speckled Dominic hens, sensay hens, peel neck hens, old, middle-aged and young hens, all eager to learn what there was to know about the subject of the meeting.

The grapevine was cackling hot and even before the meeting had officially convened and pecked to order by the serious judge, Hen C. Roach (C for Cock), they all knew that it had to do with Princess Hen Peck, and so all, as with one accord, turned their eyes as far away from her as possible, stretching their necks and looking in any and every direction bar hers.

The matriarch, Queen Mother Hen Derson and her lady-in-waiting, the Princess Royal Hen Vee, occupied the most important section. Last to arrive by design, with a great bustle of fanfare, tail flashing, bowing here, bowing there, was party leader President Hen Thieusiast, whose ancestors hailed from Senegal and who was a known Francophile. She was accompanied as usual by her Germane Public Relations Officer, Hen Chmann, her Personal Assistant Hen Slave, her two overweight bodyguards, heavy weight boxers Hen Grosse and Hen Normous, and seven sycophants, each answering to the name Hen Tail One to Hen Tail Seven.

Judge C. Roach banged her beak on an old tin can to call the meeting to order.

“The meeting is called to order! Madam President Hen Thieusiast who needs no introduction, will address the gathering in a few brief words. Madam President!”

There was controlled applause except for the sycophants who cheered, whistled, catcalled and clapped long and loud enough for everyone.

Madam President moved to the most conspicuous spot, which was beside the judge and directly in her Public Relations Officer, Hen Chmann and her Personal Assistant Hen Slave, keeping time. 

Suddenly she burst into speech in her high trident cackle: “Hens of the Hen Party Internationale, bon jour. I greet you all in hen solidarity and in hen liberation. Fellow hen citizens, we are gathered here this morning on a political imperative. It makes no difference what the occasion for our coming together in any one place, the imperative is always political. Never let us forget that where two or more hens are gathered together in the name of the Party, there is a political agenda. Whatever we do, we do in the interest of our Party and that is political action."

Pausing to peer about her, she did a mental check and nodded with satisfaction on seeing that the hens seemed to be all there. 

"Let me continue.  We now operate in the corridors of bird power but we must be ever mindful of the fact that power was not handed to us in a feeding trough or in a watering container. We ourselves seized it. We did not merely peck our way to it, but we focused and disciplined ourselves in the right direction. We organized ourselves; we strategized ourselves, we educated ourselves, we prepared ourselves and we politicized ourselves into the powerful body that we are today." The hens cheered her with one accord.

After pirouetting in a most fancy manner, she turned to bow to her Honour Judge C. Roach and to Dowager Queen Henderson, both of whom acknowledged the stylish homage. 

"We hens have achieved hen power only because we hens of every persuasion went out and seized power in the name of the Party," she cried. "We are political birds, one and all. We stand on one united front, operating together as a coalition, as one corporate body, one united force, moving together, forward ever, backward never. Birds of a feather, we stick together, for better forever! One aim, one destiny! A la luta continua, and as we say in Senegal the country of my ancestors: ‘Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité!’ Let me substitute ‘Sororité’ for that cocky chauvinist term ‘Fraternité’."

Jumping about, she cackled, "Yeah, sister hens, the struggle is long, the struggle is hard but the struggle must go on for the struggle is our life! Without much ado, I will hand you over to our revered matriarch, great-grandmother, grandmother, mother and Dowager Queen of us all, our champion politician, our precious Queen Mother Hen Derson. Voiala Our majestic Queen Mother Hen Derson!”

There was loud applause for the beloved matriarch, and the President stole the opportunity to bask in it as if it were also meant for her. Queen Mother Henderson did not bother to move out but stood up in her place and addressed her captive feathered audience.

“My dear chicks, there is no need for much palaver. Everyone who ought to be here is here and I thank you for your swift response to my call of emergency. One for all and all for one, operating in this manner, no failure. Let me come to the point without beating about the bush. Princess Hen Peck, whom you all know, is in crisis, in serious crisis. She is suffering from a severe attack of post-ovum blues or rather, post-ovum depression to be more precise.  Some call it post-traumatic-egg-laying syndrome. Whatever the label, this, as some of you are no doubt aware, is a case of the inability to cope with life after laying the first egg and to come to terms with the abandonment of one’s cock-mate."

Flapping her wings, she appealed, “Hen Peck needs us to help her resolve this dilemma. She needs the sympathy and understanding of us older birds, of you her peers and of you younger ones who have yet to taste the bittersweet sexperience of egg laying. Egg laying is strictly a hen affair. That is the road for all of us hens and I am asking everyone of you in the name of our sorority, to put aside all your differences, great and small, and rally around Princess Hen Peck. She has only just learnt that egg laying is even more of a personal and female thing than hatching, and she is not taking kindly to it. That is why the Party has been summoned to give our support to a fellow member in the aftermath of what should be a natural and pleasant experience but has unfortunately turned out to be a rather traumatic one for her."

Most of the hens flapped their wings in sympathy. “In plain cackle, Hen Peck is losing control and is all stressed out. Right now she is suffering from acute adrenal exhaustion organically, but she is even more exhausted or, to put it bluntly, burnt out emotionally and psychically. We want to avoid clinical psychiatric complications. Let us rescue her. Let us pamper her and allow her to lean on us while we shower on her our love and affection, and in an act of sisterly consciousness in hen solidarity, stave off a mental breakdown. In presenting my daughter’s case to you, I have not hemmed and hawed but have called a spade a spade. Are we all of one cackle? If so let me hear it, my beloved chicks! Let me hear it for Princess Hen Peck!”

The old reddish-feathered Queen resumed her seat. She had addressed the gathering in her dignified and controlled cackle, befitting her imperial status. It was the first time that she had asked anything of them. They stood up in unison. Love surged in their hearts for her and it was transformed into a fount of sympathy and sisterly love, empathy and affection for little bemused and bewildered Hen Peck who sat at her mother’s feet with a tired look of defeat. The applause was deafening. Overwhelmed, the old lady rose once more to her feet, very slowly, as the arena rang with cries of “Cack-aye, cackye, cack-aye!” 

Her audience to a hen, which is to say, in unanimity, cackled wholehearted acceptance and affirmation of her request. They indicated that they were a united therapeutic force, of one singular mind, with one sole agenda, the recovery of Princess Hen Peck. The regnant Queen raised her wings in appreciation and in response, all the other birds, even the exhausted Princess Hen Peck, raised their wings to the utmost without flapping them. Queen Mother Henderson took her seat again with a flush of gratitude and triumph.

At first the Hen Party had an open discussion. Then the executive went into private parley and a unanimous agreement having been reached, Her Honour

Judge C. Roach peck-pecked with her hard beak for order, and having got it, called out in a rather stern voice, “Sgt. Hen Circle, action!”

Sgt. Hen Circle jumped immediately to action, saluted the judge with a macho military bellow “Suh!”’ and turning to the hens, screeched, “Fall in!” Before anyone could say ‘hi’ all the hens, including the judge, the Queen Mother and the President, all excepting Princess Hen Peck fell into a perfect circle, beak to tail around the little black victim.

“What a glorious sight!” exclaimed one of the lesser cocks, who watched from a distance but dared not advance closer. The hens all heard the compliment but chose to ignore any distraction that could divert them from their mission of rehabilitation of a sister member of their hen sorority. Sgt. Hen Circle who had coached them into forming a perfect circle, felt good inside about the compliment but she didn’t allow her feelings to show. Later she would get close-up and personal to that adoring cock and get him to run circles around her while they made whoopee, but this moment belonged to Princess Hen Peck. So she smothered or rather put her sexual fantasies and yearnings on hold.

The hens all started to ululate around the little black Princess Hen Peck, who stood in the ring, in their midst, a vision of misery, head thrown back, eyes half-closed, tears streaming down her beak as she trilled with all her heart, with all the pieces of her broken heart for all those near and far who cared to take note:

“Cock, cock, mi lay, oh! Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!” and the ululating hens, bar none, with one accord, cried in gender understanding, profound sympathy, unison and hen solidarity, “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

Princess Hen Peck lifted her wings, raised her pretty head and lifted on high her soprano cackle and sang, “Cock, cock, mi lay, oh! Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!” And again without exception, the hens with raised wings chorused in unison: “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

And then from an unidentified part of the far end of the barnyard, rang out a rich, mocking, cocky baritone, loud, derisive and clear, a baritone, which the disturbed and trembling Princess Hen Peck could not fail to distinguish from among a million others:

                    “Doh ray me fah soh lah tee doh!

                     If it wasn’t fah me, oh

                     You wouldn’t lay to rah-ti-doh

                     Te lah soh fah me ray doh-o-o-o-ooh!”

And the Hen Party ululated and ululated on and on and on and on...

   

                                                           

THE HEND.

Hen Zinga Hen Zinga. 

All the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright.