I used to have a loud canary
Plume and breast quite ordinary
But even so
While feathers grow
I begin to worry.

Birds, I know, are not bound creatures
With their hasty contumacious features
It’s quite easy
to
watch her flee me
In a steadfast hurry.

And this canary, fair and wise
Had two dreadful, glaring eyes
And when she sings
Of death it rings
As men begin to scurry

And though her mind, so volatile
Pushed me back, for a short while
I cannot help but feel a smile
When I hear her piercing hurly

And though you’d never guess
By her brightly painted breast
Her parting words
Were scarcely heard
As for me, the memory’s blurry.