To Thomas Hardy, Percey Bysshe Shelley, John Keats, and anyone else who wrote a famous bird poem. You are all pretentious dicks.
The Darkling 'Dactyl
I perch'd upon a cliff and ate,
When land was full buffet.
And running was done, desperate,
Which made for weakened prey.
The tangled masses run to die.
Chase bolstered just my ire.
And all the time I hunted high,
I sought them 'til I tire.
On land's sharp features seemed to be,
A score of dead outleant.
I view this crypt from canopy.
From me their death was meant.
So, this current sight brought no mirth,
A hunter, high and dry.
And every spirit upon the Earth
Seem'd fervorless as I.
At once a squeak arose! That tongue!
A broken twig ahead.
Being wholehearted and headstrong,
I dive, speed unlimit'd.
The aged beast, frail, gaunt, and small,
Its terror-fueled fume
Has drawn me to tear it a hole,
And leave a new blood bloom.
So very much cause for carolings,
Of such desperate sound,
Writ in terrestrial feedings.
Not here nor far around
Was an animal that snuck through
This happy, good-night air.
So, some poor creature, somewhere knows
That I am quite aware.