J. Bird

Our generation is lost and beat,
Down by the fireside, down to the street.

Fast-paced lives in slow motion we treat,
Each and every day chugging through concrete.

My J. Bird blows and twittles so sweet,
Pummels my ear drum while I slump at my seat.
Queet, Queet, Queet

Struggling with words my dreams are replete
With songs, poems and soliloquies that defeat

A martyr by day for my peers at my feet
To the Orient they swim, to the West they retreat.

But my J. Bird is with me, and never off-beat
He tickles my neck and chokes on each tweet.
Queet, Queet, Queet

I’m the last of my kind and perhaps obsolete
Quick to blame the Celt who stuck in his cleat.

A mother left alone in a one-bedroom suite
Two babies to feed, one son to mistreat.

The J. Bird is calm with a mouthful of wheat
Hunters in the bush, on the prairie they meet.
Queet, Queet, Queet!

This generation moves with a tentacle sweep,
Reliant on the bottle, suctioned to the teat,

Exodus or not I could not join the fleet
Of bulimic missionaries regurgitating their meat.

J. Bird or not I still feel petite
Bludgeoned by decorum and fainting from heat I
Queet, Queet, Queet.

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