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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.