Hen House

Varying the routine,
I like to root in my positions,
Like a mother hen to her nest,
And squack until I'm blue in the face,
At any old bloodhound to pass by,
About every problem I haven't fixed,
And every one I'm sure to start,
Until they howl at my persistance,
And I ruffle feathers one more time,
To show I mean business brother,
And there is a secret hope,
That if I belch knowledge enough,
I will eventually be light enough to fly,
Up and over the house and the weathervane,
With the morning rooster joining in flight to the sun,
Both of us refusing to let up,
Lighter and lighter,
And the bloodhounds will howl up from their solid dirt road.