Said the Little Red Rooster,
“Believe me, things are tough!
Seems the worms are getting scarcer
And I cannot find enough.
What’s become of all those fat ones?
It’s a mystery to me.
There were thousands through that rainy spell,
But now, where can they be?”
But the Old Black Hen who heard him
Didn’t grumble or complain,
She had lived through lots of dry spells
She had lived through floods of rain.
She picked a new and undug spot;
The ground was hard and firm,
“I must go to the worms,” she said.
“The worms won’t come to me.”
The Rooster vainly spent his day
Through habit, by the ways
Where fat round worms had passed in squads
Back in the rainy days.
When nightfall found him supperless,
He growled in accents rough,
“I’m hungry as a fowl can be;
Conditions sure are tough.”
But the Old Black Hen hopped to her perch
and dropped her eyes to sleep
And murmured in a drowsy tone,
“Young man, hear this and weep.
I’m full of worms and happy
For I’ve eaten like a pig.
The worms were there as always
But, boy, I had to dig!”