Not Your Mother’s Nursery Rhyme

Sixteen birds, flapping their wings.

One flies ahead to see what the sun brings.

Never one to chance at play,

another changes current, refusing to stay.

So sure he is in the right,

a third bickers with a fourth mid-flight.

A lady, with eyes so fair,

brushes a gentleman who returns her stare.

An au pair to the two fledglings behind

knows her duties, no need to remind!

Then a wayward minstrel joins their group

with tales and songs of his missing troupe.

Among them is a minister, preened and stout,

giving his sermons with a great shout.

One bright gal, her feathers shining,

dreams of an adventure worth designing.

A scholar to the rear, his glasses askew,

looks more uncomfortable than a sinner in a pew.

“Look below,” he hears a friend yell.

“Look at the humans in their handmade hell.”

The last to name, a Bonnie and Clyde

who couldn’t find north, even if they tried.

Sixteen birds, flapping their wings,

looking for hope and other dangerous things.

 

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