The cool breeze gently winnowed fields of grain, as dusk crept upon the earth.
And in the wake of that timorous gale, a foggy rime was set; in all its churning meandering girth.
The skittering scratching cry of flint harshly put to steel,
Harmonized with the squeaking pedal of a grinding wheel.
This somber dirge was all that whispered upon that fateful gale.
The ominous warning now was sung.

And not a word was uttered by the restless gaggle.
Not a screech or squawk; neither cluck nor cackle.
Priests consoled their acolytes, and mothers comforted their children.
And in their hearts they did recite a foreboding prayer of favor and of thanks.
Just as suddenly as it had commenced that eerie tune did cease.
And for a dreadful moment, silence hung upon the air like an insufferably sullen fleece.
Once a year the culling came, yet another had begun.

He strode into their monumental abode,
And from their ranks, a plump and boisterous matron he chose.
Swooping her up from the crowd, he placed her upon his sanguinary alter,
And deftly heaving his colossal ax, he lopped her head off, clean and neat.
With a ravenous grin, he snatched another of the poultry gathered at his feet.
For himself a feast to make, their vengeful god came every year,
And with earnest zest and vigor, over half the gaggle he benumbed.