Late Bird

Late Bird didn’t whistle for the rising sun

Because he was out too late having fun.

The truth can make a liar wiggle and squirm.

Everybody knows what bird gets the worm.

Migratory patterns are exciting to behold.

Flocks of birds fly south before the cold.

As fate had it on a wintery day,

The early birds routinely had flown away.

Like the proverbial fly that doesn’t eat feces,

Late Bird felt a north breeze fleece the trees.

He tucked his feathers and began to fly south.

Frost froze his wings, even the saliva in his mouth.

He fell to the ground, damn near dead.

A cow passed and covered him from foot to head.

The warmth of the waste thawed him out.

He was so happy, he began to sing and shout.

The noise awakened a feline from her catnap.

Curious Kitty dug Late Bird from the crap.

It’s not known if it was because of the tune,

But Late Bird did Cute Kitty consume.

The morals of this poem are three in number

To keep Late  Birds uneaten, sober and somber:

(1) Everyone who craps on you is not your enemy;

(2) The one who gets you out of crap may not be friendly;

(3) If you are warm and happy in a pile of cRAP,

Keep your beak closed, and that’s my wRAP!

© March 26, 2011