Bessie was a stately hen
Who pecked her fill in dirt and sand.
The one thing missing from her life
Was this: a pretty poultry band.
For just as girls love bracelets, so
All chickens worth their salt demand
To wear on leg the height of fashion:
That is, a Ketchum poultry band.
“Aluminum or brass,” Bess thought,
“Is just the ticket. Nothing bland
Or boring—not for me! Or, better
Yet, a custom-printed band.”
Alas, she pined in vain. The full
Length of the farmer’s coop she scanned
And saw nowhere what she desired
To grace her leg: a poultry band.
The farmer’s cow told Bess, “May I
Suggest you get a handsome brand
Like mine? It’s quite in vogue.” Distressed,
She answered, “No—I want a band!”
Dismayed and desperate, she resolved
In every near and far-off land
To seek, and one day find, that most
Elusive Ketchum chicken band—
And flew the coop! On foot and wing
She roved as far as Samarkand
And searched the famous market there.
Sadly, she found no poultry band.
“A chicken leg band isn’t much
To ask for, is it? I have spanned
The breadth of Earth—to no avail,”
Cried Bessie, feeling less than grand.
Right then her feathers brushed against
A magic lamp that stood near, and
Out popped a genie, who exclaimed,
“Dear Bess, your wish is my command,”
And whisked her home! Wherewith she spied
Gleaming in the farmer’s hand
Like gold—“Hooray, oh happy day!”—
A precious Ketchum poultry band.
Now Bessie rules the roost. She’ll strut
The yard, and sometimes stop and stand
And gaze admiringly at her leg—
Adorned with such a perfect band.
— By Frank Weaver