At the "Basse Cour"

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In Poulaille's grand castle hall,

The Rooster surrounds himself with all.

All his hens cluck in their chatter,

While the Rooster indulges in all that matters.

The other hens and cocks bow their heads,

Forgetting dignity, to please the creature who spreads.

No longer is it that a sight of flatterers so keen,

Adorned with masks of hypocrisy and deceit unseen,

While the rest of the fowl

Wallow in the straw's soft scowl.

Only the Rooster, master of his domain,

Skillfully commands hate, love, and the morning's reign,

All feelings in the Henhouse fall in line,

Under his rule, to make everything fine.

Now let me, dear readers, with examples make clear,

A few to your mind, so you'll understand here.

Madame de La Cannelle, each day does she scent,

Hoping the Rooster will catch her fragrant intent.

Yet the only aroma that from her cheeks will arise

Is that of mud, much to her surprise.

As for Monsieur de Nullissé, at each royal pass,

His bow reaches the pinewood floor in mass.

He bends so low, it seems he's sniffing with haste

The Rooster's slippers, or licking them in taste.

Or Madame de Granay, adorned with bright jewels,

Her sparkle now blinds, making others the fools.

I suggest you not gaze in her direction,

For her brilliance may cause a harsh affliction.

Favorably, all the cocks

Are not all foolish in their stocks.

Madame de L'Ambre, with elegance grand,

Her beauty matched by her charm so grand,

Is a lovely rose with thorns so fine,

Deadly yet delicate, in design.

Conversely, Monsieur de La Vigne, a bon vivant,

Proclaims wine divine, as he flaunts.

He laughs at the rest of the fowl,

Sometimes all day, or throughout the night's owl.

Finally, Monsieur de Faibleprès, with a sharp wit,

Plays games of chess, with each move a hit.

His atrocious penmanship, so grim,

Would make others shudder, and flee on a whim.

Despite his frivolous acts,

His sly tactics and controlling impacts,

He is a man of great intellect,

A dear and cherished friend to respect.

Ah, Monsieur, the friendship I hold dear,

Is worth all the sweet love's cheer.

Is it necessary to place a moral

At the end of all my fables' recital?

Célestin de La Source

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