From all around a mournful murmuration sounds,
as the velvet muffled clap of feathers frantic flap.
A flooded sky of murmured words,
of rumors’ twist and flashing twitter bugs
feed the swirling fowl with bitter fermentation.
Like flights of flagrant flocks, flushed out like bats on broken wing,
a desperate flail until the party’s end.
How strange to guard a nest atop the keep wherein a serpent lies–
To feed and shield a lowly green greedophile,
With bloated belly belching out a hot-air diaspora
of diabolic seeds.  Take heed!
The serpent does feed on its own!
Is this a tower on which to aspire? ‘Tis what the dodo said.
Gather round, ye foul mocking birds, and sing a tune ye all know:
Hey ditto-ditto, the devil and the fiddle, quick now jump to the tune.
Gather round the leaning tree of life, flap-clap with wounded wing,
a silent echo bring.
Beware the mourning dove that weeps a melancholy song,
of woe for hearts, diastole with bitter fermentation’s flow.