I use too many big words

I can confuse people
With my complex speech
So I now will write something short and sweet

Mother Hen, please count to ten
Or I’ll spit right in your eye
Please count the men inside the den
Who eventually must die

If there be eight, I’ll be too late
To kiss a lonely rose
If there be nine, I’m out of time
I needn’t kill one of those

You see, I must consume this trust
The maiden fair to win
This lonesome lust for rusty rust
As I embrace all vice and sin

So now I raise this lonely haze
A sword and shield in hand
Towards the den, with Mother Hen
To purge the frozen land

To my delight, under dim light
I count the soldiers, three and four
Seven and eight, almost right
Nine – yes TEN! I then prepare for war

Towards my feet, the first two meet
Their blood upon the ground
The next two fell, hard fast to hell
They hardly made a sound

The next man came, Tugda’lla by name
His blade was cunning and swift
But before his blow, the Hen did go
From those shoulders his head to lift

Three more came to purge Tug’s shame
But I put them in their place
One left, one right, before dawns light
The other lost his face

The next man fled, but Mother, red
Gave him hot pursuit
And took him down, removed his crown
Then dined upon her loot

This last man knelt, my presence felt
That something was amiss
He plucked a string, began to sing
And begged the Hen a kiss

Her neck she craned, her will had waned
She had been romanced
The last man thrust, breaking his trust
Mother Hen he lanced

Now bleeding red, She almost dead
Bequeathed to me her beak
I held in shock, an emerald rock
I had no words to speak

The den of men, no longer ten
In fury now did quake
The man and I thought both would die
When the den became a lake

Upon the ice, I hold this vice
Of beauty, green and rare
The man began, his sad song sang
Into his eyes I stare

He plucks his strings, and sweetly sings
And plays upon his lyre
Into his breast, Emerald I pressed
The minstrel fell in fire

Ten dead men embed the den
And so towards the town
I make great stride, with greater pride
Expecting my renown

In the tower the town’s dear flower
The maiden fair awaits
I now have power to rend the tower
The power of ten Wraiths

But Mother Hen, now killed of men
Possessed the only key
Her beak a stone, won’t open Rome
Is of little use to me