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You lie there at the bottom of your cage –
A pretty corpse dressed ready for the grave;
My singer – every day I’d pay your wage
With seed, some fruit, in many ways your slave,
Was I. And for your pay you’d sit and sing
Upon your perch, a tune that I had taught
You. Proudly you’d display with outstretched wing
Your pretty colours. I recall, I caught
You in the spring after a thunder-storm,
When by the wind your aviary was wrecked.
You were, back then, a young bird fine in form,
Bright yellow, green and blue – my hand you pecked.
It’s funny – yesterday you seemed quite well;
Best bury you before you start to smell.

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