A pompous little bird, plucked and plumped with pruned and primary blue feathers,
How arcane and inane it looks as it perches on a pleading sapling
branch on the centerpiece at the table;
-Little, damned bird-
Silly wormy head cocked to the side and cocking ever farther as the
second hand drags it's way to a second second position
(Now, Sir, would that be three before the One
or simply the next second position?)
See its blind little wonky-eye, such a dead stare, a thousand yards away
from this unpalatable thick fog of silence;

The down on the breast is a wreck of bug riddled folds and unfurlings,
the talons are worn away, rounded off and seem to be cracking at the

The second second on the clock has drummed loudly and creaked to an
eerily quiet stop;
All eyes are fixed on the bird
Excluding mine:
Mine are looking into my hand
at the pads of the fingers
that just touched the lips
of the mouth of a man
who just threw up a bird

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