Cuckoo
O poet, shall I call thee bard
Or just another twitcher?
I know the writing game is hard
And seldom makes you richer.
These woods and hills are like a church
And you are like a vicar
Enraptured by your endless search
For the Elysian liquor.
Your single sanctifying word
Can elevate the lowly
And change me from a robber bird
To something high and holy.
I am sincerely grateful for
Your verses neatly inked,
For should this planet warm some more
I may become extinct.
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