Little Bird

I shit on you you you you stupid little bird, you. Godlee you silly goose poop.  I mean your poop is green, just like a Goose.  What kind of goose poops brown?  I’ve never heard of a brown pooping goose.  Maybe you’re a swan.  With big ole’ white wings and orange beak.  You swan like pooper.  Little pellets of poop.  That’s what you are bird.  A bird of pellet poops.  If you ate an M&M it’d be a green one, I bet.  Why green, you ask? Well if you ate a blue one you’d explode of course.  Yellow you’d get sick.  Brown, they don’t make brown M&Ms anymore, silly.  Jeez get with the times man.  No, not the NYtimes.  Just get in reality.  Stop living in that fantasy word of olive trees and strawberry bushes.  I know you like to eat strawberries, but they’ll kill you i tell you.  They’re out to get you.  I heard them talking the other day about killing you lil ole’ bird.  Man what would you taste like?  I bet you taste like city smog and a log.  Why a log and smog?  Only because they rhyme of course.  See, I’m what you’d call a poet.  Yes, I know that you need to have a standard of prose and motion, but I’m a man of pros and cons.  I can rhyme on occasion. And to me that’s poetry.  Rhyming one sentence’s end to another.  I mean I do have a mother!  You like what I did just there.  Watch what I’m about to do over here.  I could try to write in iambic pentameter, but I am a simple man. I know no wit.  For godsakes look into my eyes.  Can you see a divine power in these eyes of mine.  No! Of course not!  I am not here to impress you with a devilish twirl.  I am simply here to kill you little bird.  The strawberries have paid a large sum.  Two years of harvest to be exact.  I get to eat those elder’s children they tell me.  One bye one.  Any way I wish.  I could eat them raw or with a little sugar.  I could even bake them into a pie.  I could eat them with you if I ever so wish little bird.  Right after I kill you.  I will eat you.  Stupid little bird why haven’t you flown away.  Do you think that I won’t kill you myself.  I wish you not to test me.  See here, I have my weapon.  A simple shovel to most, but in the hands of a mad man it is a killer’s shovel.  I have taken the life of two squirrels and the head of a snake, I tell you!