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An Acrostic Poem (The Right Word)
Those birds I ponder near my house
Have holes in trees as flitter mouse,
Except they flitter through the day.
Such grating songs they always play,
Part cuckoo screeches calling loud,
All arrogance and preening proud.
Right rudely do they guard the nests-
Rough arguments; effusive pests.
Oh, sparrows are a noisome bunch
When break my fast and spoil my lunch.
And when of wind they might run dry,
Nowhere is there a silent sigh.
Damn chickadees now chide and bitch.
The rant is as a scratchless itch.
Hell hath no music like their “song”.
Eccentric ghosts of fools gone wrong?
Condemn me to this sentence cruel!
High note and low, while on the stool,
I ever must endure the wail.
Cacophony of Cosmic scale
Kills love of nature’s keen delight.
All breeds of bird engage to fight.
Don’t get me wrong, aggression moves
Each passive creature and improves
Each generation in due course.
A crow will fight a hawk perforce
Resulting in a stronger house.
E’en sparrows will a pecking louse
Molest when more than wood he seeks,
Although ‘tis when to nests he peeks
That chickadees become aroused.
In this is nature’s wisdom housed.
Not though, in couplings base, unmeet.
God turns his ear from blended tweet.
In hovels of the maple tree
Not one, but count too vast to see,
The birds are hatching half breed spawn!
Enough! The deed leaves Gaea thrawn!
Revolting is the hybrid deed.
An action that perverts the seed.
Chicks half and half and in same nest.
Indeed, this makes an evil pest.
Alright, I’ve had my racist rant.
Look not for me in black currant.
Look not for me where they might sing.
You have to know I hate the spring.
Comments
Rula
Sat, 2014-12-20 10:53
Sir
You're making your partner's job so hard. Acrostics are a real pain and you've even doubled that pain with the rhyming couplets.
I remember reading this a while ago on the AT.
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wesley snow
Sat, 2014-12-20 17:02
But it's horrible.
It needs help more than any small poem I've written. It needs to be saved.
W. H. Snow
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley
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