SQUAB NIGHT

I remember as a little guy
of maybe eight or nine,
watching Mom prepare a meal,
everything looked fine,
she had a bowl of chickens,
gosh they looked so small,
and Mom would laugh at my small gaff,
“Why those aren’t chickens at all!”
That evening we were having squab,
it was a real treat,
and each of us got our own bird,
just small enough to eat.
It had some tiny drumsticks
and tiny little wings,
all rolled up in a little bird,
they were the cutest things.

One day Mom said “It’s squab night,
your Grandpa’s in the shed,
take this pot out to him,
so we could all be fed”.
I did not understand at first,
but did what I was told,
out to Grandpa’s pigeon coop,
I was as good as gold.
I peeked in through the doorway,
and Grandpa was inside,
before him seven lifeless birds
that he was trying to hide.
Feathers strewn across the floor,
I felt my small heart throb,
that’s the way, I learned that day
that they call pigeons, squab.

Walt

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