Heatstroke
By
Jude Kyrie*

The naked sun sets the world on fire.
A scalded sky like a funeral pyre.
No rain in sight as the heat goes higher
Like musical notes.
Sit the birds on the telephone wire

No peace for me no cool blue moon.
No respite from their crazy tune
The chirping crows turn the volume higher.
The birds are notes on the telephone wire

That awful hurdy-gurdy sound
Makes my head spin round and round
If I had a gun I would surely fire
At those infernal birds
upon the telephone wire.