ROOSTER RUNNING

EXCERPT FROM EUROTRIPPING ©JR DAESCHNER

One by one the dead roosters are winched up over the street and the boys take turns addressing the community.

Mounted on horseback, with a dead bird overhead, they lampoon village characters and embarrass their friends and families with jokes that are so specific the punchlines easily pass you by if you're not local.

At the end, they turn their eyes heavenward to address the chicken, even though it's long past hearing them. With a final flourish, they unsheathe their swords and bat the bird's head more out of duty than malice. The other quintos gallop past, bashing the cock-on-a-string.

So far, so phallic. But perhaps the most bizarre aspect is that these are young men-teenagers-proudly reciting poetry-that rhymes-in public-as a rite of passage. Not just a few humpty-dumpty couplets, either, or raps about bitches and ho's; they've memorised mini-epics with multiple stanzas.

What's more, they're waxing lyrical in front of hundreds of people of all ages who have waited in the cold to listen to picaresque verse, perching on balconies, standing on walls and crowding right up next to them on the street to hear what they view as home truths, always laced with humour to avoid ruffling any feathers.

In the spirit of El Gallo, the poems sound off about the plight of the countryside. 'I sing in honour of the peasants,' one of the cadets declares, before ticking off the usual complaints about immigration, environmentalists, the free market and the strings attached to EU aid.

'We don't want charity,' he shouts. 'All we want is justice!'

We're losing aspects of our village life Our strange and amazing traditions Every year we have more bachelors But a smaller population. As the applause turns to laughter, the quinto goes in for the kill. What's the matter with our machos? Have they lost their desire? Or is it that their balls and pricks Simply cannot sire?

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