My parrot is emerald green, His tail feathers, marine. He bears an orange half-moon Over his ivory beak. He must be believed to be seen, This bird from a Rousseau wood. When the urge is on him to speak, He becomes too true to be good.
He uses his beak like a hook To lift himself up with or break Open a sunflower seed, And his eye, in a bold white ring, Has a lapidary look. What a most astonishing bird, Whose voice when he chooses to sing Must be believed to be heard.
That stuttered staccato scream Must be believed not to seem The shriek of a witch in the room. But he murmurs some muffled words (Like someone who talks through a dream) When he sits in the window and sees The to-and-fro wings of wild birds In the leafless improbable trees.