There is a type of bird, lost in time
flying behind the sound of drums,
breaking into another rhyme
and picking upon allegric crumbs.
It flies and swoops past your arms
and asks you why you fear the slums
You say that foulness has it’s harms,
she says that your logic stinks
and that the sound of fowelness has it’s charms
with flapping wings she smiles and winks
past the sunlight, sounds a chime
and out of site your vision blinks.