now hold—i say, hold on now. 
hawk or no hawk, it ain't right
for that boy to go terrorizin'
older folks like that

shootin' them with arrows,
callin' himself big chickenhawk
engine and dancin' with 
his feathered head-piece 
like some crazy mohawkin

so what if his kind hunts and 
eats what we are--he's still a boy!

i tell him, you can't—i say,
can't go makin' more noise than
a couple of skeletons throwin'
a fit on a tin roof, sonny

and it ain't—i say, ain't smart to
go round bitin' folks bigger than you
that's how you get hurt

Miss Prissy tell me all the time 
to let the boy be; that at his age
he's harmless 

and i always tell my lammy pie 
there's a whole—i say, whole 'lotta 
eggs with the crazy notion they're 
too fresh for they own yolk

at his age, he need—i say, need 
to learn to mind us better, honey bun
and stop this stuff bout survival of
the fittest and all that other nonsense

Barnyard Dawg ain't—i say,
ain't much better for yokin' 
the boy along with his mischief,
tellin him new ways to trap me

so i tell sonny he been lied to 
for so long, and that all—
i say, all this time i was a horse 
instead of a rooster 

then i point to that silly dawg 
smilin' like a boozehound 
after badgerin' ol' foghorn 

there—i say, there's your 
chicken, boy. all four legs. 
go on over and taste him, sonny. 
i'm sure you'll like it.