It takes one to know one swift fell swoop like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry. If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees, I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.
I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them. Find somebody else to get up and go; I cry like I fly like a carrion crow and I've two left feet and no time to tango.
It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia is making this worse, so I might disperse.
If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together; playing pretend we're birds of a feather. I could commend, but that's such a no-no; you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.
And if you don't much mind, I might just take five. I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done. I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square, right back at square one.
Now can you see how this is cyclic? Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic, up the wall, and driving me sick. Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick, and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet, but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.
So here's one for the road, turn by the way the devil drives you home, and one good turn deserves another.