A morning poem

I woke early one morning

The earth lay cool and still

When suddenly a tiny bird

Perched on my windowsill

He sang a song so lovely

So carefree and so gay

That slowly all my troubles began to slip away

He sang of far off places

Of laughter and of fun

It seemed his very trilling

Brought up the morning sun

I stirred beneath the covers

Crept slowly out of bed

Then gently shut the window

And crushed his fucking head

I’m not a morning person.

Anon.

A poem in honor of the 4 hours sleep I had. Thank you to all the miracles of nature, who started trilling at 3am.