12-28 All The Little Birds

All those little birds,
say he-ey,
hungry rabid filthy beasties,
picking at my carefully spun
gold embroidered
spider-strung threads,
pulling and choking,
my precious music boxes,
precocious pantomiming,
beady-eyed bastards,
I've got eight legs,
tapping an appetite,
on the window,
where you play,
little birds...