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| These fellows (and on gal) provided excellent entertainment in our fruitless wait to officially check in at the Port of Stacia. After a 45-minute wait, a gal working at the port blessed us to not worry about it, and just enjoy the island. Bargain! We did. |
St. Eustacia (aka Stacia), more than any other island we’ve seen yet, is the land where the roosters roam and the hens run quickly away. It is the land of cock of the walk, roosters strut proudly.
And with good reason. These are handsome fellows, they put their fellow tatty Caribbean feathered friends to shame. Their backsides sport a solid, sassy swoosh of shiny, slightly iridescent green-black feathers; their chests a rich tapestry of red-orange. Their golden eyes are bright, quick and alert, their red cocks-combs vibrant accents. They move with energy and purpose.
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| This rooster met us at the summit of the Quill trail, at the rim of Stacia’s currently inactive volcano caldera. This fellow was particularly fond of Wayne, even before sharing a granola bar, which we thought was reasonable chicken feed. |
They are intrepid and in some cases, fearless, too. Here, we met the coolest rooster ever, and we’re not even normally fowl friends outside a dinner plate.
After our encounter, Cock love, we wonder, is it wrong?
Holiday Irreverence
In the light of the Caribbean, may enjoy this spoof I wrote
Grandma Got Run Over By A Rooster
(sung to the tune of Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer)
Grandma got run over by a rooster
Walking home from our house Christmas eve.
You can say there’s no such thing as Santa,
But as for me and grandpa we believe.
She’d been drinking too much rum punch,
And then things got a little out of hand.
But she forgot her sun-screen lotion, and she
Staggered out the door into the sand.
When we found her Christmas morning,
At the scene of the attack,
She had bird-prints on her forehead,
And incriminating Claus marks on her back.
Walking home from our house Christmas eve.
You can say there’s no such thing as Santa,
But as for me and grandpa we believe.
She’d been drinking too much rum punch,
And then things got a little out of hand.
But she forgot her sun-screen lotion, and she
Staggered out the door into the sand.
When we found her Christmas morning,
At the scene of the attack,
She had bird-prints on her forehead,
And incriminating Claus marks on her back.
Now we’re all so proud of grandpa,
He’s been taking this so well.
See him on the beach ogling jailbait,
Drinking Carib beer and
Playing strip poker really late.
It’s not Christmas without Grandma,
All the family’s dressed in shorts
And we just can’t help but wonder:
Should we mourn in nude,
Or try bobsledding sports?
Try bobsledding sports!!
He’s been taking this so well.
See him on the beach ogling jailbait,
Drinking Carib beer and
Playing strip poker really late.
It’s not Christmas without Grandma,
All the family’s dressed in shorts
And we just can’t help but wonder:
Should we mourn in nude,
Or try bobsledding sports?
Try bobsledding sports!!
Now the goat is on the table
(alt line: Now the roti’s on the table)
And the pudding’s coconut
And the sun is shining brightly
Reminding us all of
The bulge on grandma’s gut.
I’ve warned all my
Calypso dancing partners
Better go on out and yell,
They should never give a license
To a man who drives a sleigh
And whose roosters raise holy hell
…& a Happy Holidays… wherever you are and whoever you’re with!
