To the Birds outside my window,
This morning of June, hour’d four thirty-three,
While I love thy chipper tunes
As my romanticized, rose-blind view of the sea,
Thy song hath boiled the morn to bubble, and steep
A black-leaf tea, surging caffeine,
When I really fuckin’ need to sleep.
And now Time has trickled to quarter’till,
Thoughts start dissecting immortality,
As I’m devoid of any control or will,
Snagged on a sleep-ridden congeniality.
O, Birds! Ye with feathers white and red and umber,
The Bell tolls five now, and echoes o’er the bay,
And thou hast snatched my soft, sappy slumber,
Thus, I can tell, from ante-dawn,
It’s bound to be a long-ass day.
So, fuck it! Birds! Chirp on!