The crow calls began too early to be a normal
event; they’re out to bug me you mutter, know
I’m wearing hearing aids today, whomever let
‘em into the secret is a treacherously damned
excommunicant to be - so who’s the culprit of
this heinous crime against passivity; but none
stand proud or laugh derisively, except crows,
whose sense of proportion is très deviant
Alright, you bargain, I’ll let it be if you buggers
caw from trees further away; swearing outside
my windows is crude and indecent, especially
when you’ve so little to say that isn’t abusive -
or have I that wrong too and the problem’s an
acute lack of a viable passerine vocabulary
© 24 November 2014, I. D. Carswell
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