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Rated: E · Poetry · Animal · #2075757
A wren plagues me.

Oh winged imp, devil flyer, brutish
brown avian fluff, you plague my life
like sprain and ague, like oil spills
and I’m the slip.  How is it you are
flying fiend, disgorged from trees
to peck my scalp?
An Energizer battery, a hopping
flutter obstinate; I know you as
pure woe this day, a lightweight
scourge, a pest, a tease.
And now I recognize
that you have come from
dinosaurs--your legacy
upholds the mean.

Ah, my flapping pester puff
with beak so keen in lust for neck,
you are my misery, to wit;
I stoop and cower ‘neath the sun
as flights on high release assail,
and you in dive seek shoulder skin
or lobe of ear
where flesh succumbs. 
To offer up such tender meat
in flighty operation reeks, and
thus is born a plan within
to halt such barbarism cold.
My little wren, in morning bright
I am no pivot for your turn,
nor lass demure as in, The Birds,
wherein bird sorties
seemed the norm.

From overhead, wren pestilence,
and I in melancholy weep.
A whirr of knotted sufferer,
a cat’s-paw for wren
snip and whim.

36 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2075757