As she molded back into the tub of wax,
The medley that she came from,
She often thought it to be hard to maintain the shape she desired:
A little bird of yellow feathers with polka-dots of red,
Who sang a dark,
Blue song the whole night long and this is what she said:
Although I’d rather be a yellow bird than anything that’s grander,
I often find it all too hard to eat when life is bitter.
It’s easier this way you see,
To blend with all the others,
As broken wings and solemn things die slowly in the winter.
© 2001 RB