We have got a bantam rooster with a funny little face,
And he tells us by his swagger that he thinks he owns the place.
He will lord it o’er the chickens with a mien and manner high,
And the strangest thing about it is he generally gets by.
We have Brahams, Rocks, and Cochins--big and strong and robust, all;
But they let this bantam run the place because he has the gall.
Big and lazy and good-natured, they seek out a shady spot,
Nor dispute the bold assumption of his right to rule the lot.
And sometimes I think the whole world is a barnyard, wide and vast.
With the selfsame situation, as the ages hurry past.
People big and strong and able take the smooth and easy way,
While the fussy little fellows feather in and win the day.
Singular, at least, I call it that so oft the crown is worn.
By some self-elected demagogue, so oft the scepter borne,
Not by some one with the vision a commanding swath to cut,
But some cocky little bantam who was born to preen and strut.