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A new piece of work and something I must say, I am pretty pleased with…

Bird of Paradise

When it is warm,
They do not gather,
In my village,
To watch the sunsets.

The sound of argument,
To argument escorts,
Every walk…

Oh, to be a bird,
And fly, as the crow,
Hearing a language,
I am proud, not to know.

Still not caring, even as I,
Land, they would stay far,

Oh, to be a bird,
And fly, as the crow…

Hearing a language,
I am proud, not to know…


Strong echoes of William Blake, but hey, I love the guy. His balance of naïveté and knowing…bloody genius!

A note on one meaning of the work:
Is it an attack on elitism or a defence of elitism? I would hope the confusion between the two pulls both dangerous extremes into question.
Sometimes each side it seems to me in their eagerness to hate one another miss the beauty, the sunset, bringing on a sunset which may be the last…

Another possibly relevant little thing of note; birds of paradise sacrifice ‘flight’ for ‘show.’


As I was writing this something rather ‘serendipitous’ occurred…

I’d like to think this would rather tickle a smile from the old man himself…


Taken from issue 1365 of Private Eye Magazine, and yes, it does ‘break the moment’ of the poem somewhat, but hey, shoot me! 🙂