At the tender age of six, On a bright summer day My mother turned me loose And said I could go out and play.
So, I jumped on my bike And away I flew, Around the block, With the sky so blue.
Just learning to ride, The brakes were sticky. Concentrating on turning Those corners was tricky.
Rounding the third corner, I heard an awful racket. A witch was popping chickens’ heads off And she didn’t use a hatchet.
Headless chickens running here and there, A headless chicken in the tree. Blood and feathers splattered everywhere, A headless chicken chasing me.
Screaming bloody murder, I pedaled with all my might. The witch was killing chickens. Oh, what an awful sight!
Looking behind me, but pedaling forward, Fearing the chicken with no head, I hold the scars where I left my knuckles On the side of the witch’s shed.
I can still hear my mother’s laughter, When she tells of my horrific day, When she could hear my screams, and cries From a half-a-block away,
She tells of the kind old woman Who would wring her chickens’ necks And accidently scared a six-year-old Nearly half to death.
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