LAZY BIRD

LAZY BIRD

My God, you are a lazy bird,
Hopping around outside my door.

Always having the last word,
Knowing you’s been such a bore.

You no good chirping lazy bird,
Last to head south for the winter.
Whatsa matter you, what’s your beef,
Or does your claw just have a splinter?

My languid piece of bone and feather,
This cannot be your kind of weather.

Head on south and torture
Some other sour old man,

And don’t stay here and mess with me,
Just because you can.

Oh my little lazy bird,
In you my secret I’ll confide,
I long to fly away, though it sounds absurd,
For something in my heart has died.

Something unattainable, so fragile it got broken,
And perhaps you are a metaphor
For all the words I’ve left unspoken.

All the dreams that have soiled my brain,
The blinding snow, the driving rain,
The plane that crashed, the derailed train.

Perhaps I need your stern rebuke,
Perhaps I doth protest too much,
And hating you is just a fluke.

A passing fancy and a whimsy,
A diversion fleeting and so flimsy.
Perhaps I’m just a grounded fool,
Who envies anything that moves.

My God, you are a lazy bird,
Allow me to remove your sty,
And take me with you when you go,
And teach me how to fly.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED