The folly of boys OR How the outhouse lost its lid

I don’t often share my poetry outside of my family.

They’re usually stories from our family lore that are retold in a poem for a special occasion, most often ‘given’ as a gift to my parents. I don’t even recall which event this one was for, but I’m sharing it by request.

Growing up on a farm, there are endless opportunities for adventure and even misadventure. You can decide which this is.

Lizzy and Ot, one fine summer day,
were off to the neighbours for tea.
The boys had begged “Oh please let us stay.”
and were thrilled when the parents agreed.

Before Lizzy left, she laid down some rules
the boys were to follow without question:
no fights, no destruction, no tormenting like fools
which the boys would treat more like suggestions.

When Lizzy and Ot came home later that day,
refreshed by good company and a drink,
the smiles were quickly replaced by dismay
and Ot said, “Good Lord, what’s that stink?”

As they stood by the truck quickly looking around,
two things came to attention quite fast,
the roof of the outhouse now lay on the ground
and a malodorous brown hen waddled past.

Lizzy looked at the hen and the roof on the ground
her lips pursed as the truth slowly dawned.
“Ot,” Lizzy said, “How come the boys aren’t around?
There’s mischief here those two have spawned.”

As Lizzy and Ot looked around for the two,
the brown hen found a puddle to wade in.
To Lizzy’s surprise as the wet droplets flew,
what came out was her grey speckled hen!

“Boys,” Lizzy said, in a voice loud and clear,
“You two’d better show up and confess.
The longer it takes for you both to appear
the harder it gets to explain all this mess.”

Two little blond heads came from in back of the shop,
their blue eyes just as wide as could be.
“Boys,” Ot pronounced, “tell the truth and don’t stop,
the Good Book says the truth sets you free.”

The boys, although small, were both pretty quick;
they knew freedom was not what was coming.
A few smacks on the butt was the most likely pick,
each could hear the others heart drumming.

“It all started this morning,” the oldest began,
“We were arguing ‘bout who’s the best shot.
We’re pretty dead even when shooting at cans,
a moving target’s what put us in this spot.”

“There was no challenge left in a still sitting can,
so we walked and we talked, what to do?
And that, mother dear, is how we got in this jam
and your hen became covered in poo.”

“While we were deciding how to end this debate
we came out past the old chicken run.
When we saw that big hen, common sense was too late
to save us from what was ‘bout to be done.”

“Me and him each bent down and picked up a stone
and settled ‘em firm in our slings
concentration so deep, we each stood all alone,
with a twang our slingshots let it fling.”

“We don’t really know whose rock was the one,
but that grey speckled hen gave a squawk;
her wings gave a quiver like she’d been hit by a ton.
Honest Mom, they were really small rocks.”

The youngest cried out, “Lord, we’ve killed her stone dead,
Mom will have both our hides for this bit!”
Big brother said quick, “We’ll be fine, use your head,
the place for her is the old outhouse pit!”

“We went to the outhouse and lifted the lid,
we threw the hen down that dark hole;
heaved a sigh of relief for the body was hid,
each of us with a dark mark on our soul.”

“We turned then to leave when a sound made us stop,
a cluck and a flutter from down low.
We said not a word and our hearts took a drop,
this was dark, dirty business from below.”

That hen was too dumb to fly out on her own,
so we needed to tip the house over.
And we rocked ‘til it tipped, she flew out with a groan,
from us too, when the lid hit the clover.”

“And we just shook our heads, with no way to save face
‘cause we knew Mom had built it to last.
No effort on our part could lift it back in its place
so we’d better start running and fast.”

“We got to the shop, but we’re slow on the hoof
our time on the lam cut short, so that’s all,
That’s all of truth of the hen and the roof.
We’re sure sorry Mom, on your mercy we fall.”

“Well, mercy here’s usually in some short supply
when it comes to the life of my chickens,
but I’m giving you credit boys, for no hint of a lie,
in a story that sure should have got lickins.”

“You boys best go straight from now on I hope,
Lies and running is no kind of a path.
Go get a bucket of water with soap
And you boys give that chicken a bath.”

And that is the tale of the folly of boys,
Foolish deeds ‘neath the heat of the sun.
It was good that their mischief was balanced with joys,
There’s more tales, but now this one is done.