The crow is a sign of the diabolical
Even death. And that crow that sits
On top of a dump and scavenges
Little meals, is seen an omen by the common man.
It seems evolutionary genetics made them
A little less endearing.

The lark though will score the range
Of an octave in their true passerine nature
Making music, a divine routine
Which when sung united, sounds
Like a little avian hymn or psalm.

And the owl will sit on the top
Of a branch waiting for binocular vision
And binaural acoustics to usher
In a little mouse, for a scoop
In silent flight. Only the wise one it seems
Has impeccable senses to catch prey..

Not all birds are made equal (Some birds are not)
– they just exist to give credibility
To where throats are ripped
And murder is committed. That place
We all know as a shout out of the barmy
And the incredulous.

That house where birdbrains parody at will
That sorrowful aviary called a parliament.

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