Every third chorus that you sing
Comes out discordant squawk
Not liquid, like your early strains,
But more like bar-room talk.
It sounds like human mockery
Like low scale honky-tonk
All rancid with debauchery,
A river roiled and wrong.
Why not pick out sweet notes to sing,
Oh mimic of mankind?
In a world so rank with harsh mocking,
What do we need with thine?*
Some birds, (poultraicly correct),
Mock on from night to morn;
Their foul derision splats the deck
With never-ending scorn.
Seek not their perch from which to wail
Invoking Heaven’s curse,
Instead, go mock the nightingale;
Why praise the fowler’s hearse?
critical, I know 'thine' in archaic and also too
G. Pinkney 2/ 4/ 03
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