Christmas is the Thing with Feathers

Crow: look at that, look, would you.
There he is again. Adonis, adored, adorning,
season’s greeting, tweeting, oi, stop it.

O my bleedin’ heart. Bleedin’ erithacus rubecula,
syphiliticus rubik’s cube, rub him out,
ooh rubbish. Sticking the ol’ chest out. Cor!

Bless him and his red breast. Ah. Stick him
on your cards. All wintry, ain’t he? All Christmassy.
All snowy and chirpy and chipper. Git.

Don’t put crow on your cards. No, not crow.
Crow with his blackness. Crow and his filth.
Not unfestive, festering Crow, oi, stop it.

But I seen him, erithacus rubecula.
Arithmeticulous dracula. I seen him with worms.
All writhing and wriggling and squirming

and rotting away in his oh so pretty beak
above his oh so pretty blood red breast,
mayhem, murder. Robbing ’em of life.

Stick that on a card and send it to yer nan.

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