Horrid hen.

Twas but a bitter morning. A cold chill cut through, like broken glass, under foot of frozen morning dew. Crispy like his socks of yesterday. Whiskey taste, buds in face of twilight hours. A peaceful place, forwarned of dwindling, dower. A moment of space,  informed of the power, to sour, life's rat race. 
3 blind mice.....  3 blind mice ...
with good advice