i know a tiny birdie,
and my baby talks alot,
a beak that tastes of brandy,
oh those words come down so hot,
the cage is halfway broken,
and almost falling from the hook,
i know my tiny birdie isn't reading from the book,
the one i wrote like madness on a pitiful white night,
as i screamed and drooled on everyone who resembled sudden fight,
licking powdered sugar off the beak,
winter fowl shan't lose the war,
of pricks and prose and shattered bowls that will always be no more.
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