This Poem is for the Birds
Mad as a wet hen, a little bird told me,
it's a fowl thing for poems that reference us
to be as scarce as hen's teeth and it would be
a feather in my cap, a splendid thing... yes...
to crow about, and I'd be sitting in the
catbird seat, killing two birds with just one stone
if, like the early bird that catches the larva—
tastier than worms—I too was a lone
bird—not like those of a feather that flock to-
gether; so eagle-eyed, missing nothing, like
an owl not giving a hoot, I swallow two.
One swallow does not a summer make, unlike
two or four or more, as lame ducks may suppose.
Little bird, I said, looking like the cat that
Swallowed the canary, as bird-brained as schmoes,
for calling it small. A feather in its hat,
that birdy, for not getting caught like sitting ducks.
A larva in claw is worth two in debouche,
which means "out in the open" and us instructs
bumble nor tumble into a booby hatch.
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