Ornithology

This is a heavily revised version of a poem earlier featured in the Menagerie, which, as it was simply a drunken ramble through the forest of 'Just how blunt can you make a metaphor before it can no longer cut butter', I felt should at least be made to rhyme.

You can read the original here if the mood should so take you,
though I see no earthly reason why it should want to.

Once a fiery songbird,
As summer ne'er heard
Sat in my tree,
And sang to me,
In reams of blazing verse.

But other fowls soon came,
To see my darling flame;
And beneath her wing,
They heard her sing
But it did not sound to me the same.

And they ate her feed,
And took her need,
And in their greed,
They laid their seed.

So i took my rifle,
And made bird trifle.

Distressed, my love took flight,
But by the shade of night,
Her floating strain
Came through the rain,
And it was my only delight.

But it was not for me she spake,
Twas for another's sake
Soft spun her ploy;
And through his joy,
My delight became my ache.

And so she took my heart,
And with a graceful art,
It slowly tore apart,
To all too soon depart.

So I went and shot her too,
And then made bird ragoo.

But now she's gone,
I miss that song,
that floated on the breeze.

For though I like
The tune of birds,
I hate their recipes.

And furthermore,
I do deplore,
You heed my sorry tale,
For a heart that yearns love's freedom passed,
May soon become a jail.