Perched a-top the weather vane,

a-top the cow’s butt pointing

due south at the peak of the barn roof,

that mockingbird proclaims

his proclivity for ripping off tunes.

Radio station on scan never lingers.

What remarkable range, what

preposterous talent. Chest puffed out

he belts out blue jay blues,

song sparrow solos, black crow

raucous rock and roll; he croons

a robin’s latest country hoe-down.

Poor fellow—born with no

song of his own, no apologies

what-so-ever.