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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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