In the brightly sunlit bush
your shrieks destroy the gentle hush.
Surely only a demon’s ear
could bear your banshee shrieks to hear.
In what button factory
were those eyes, so refractory,
popped out from the plastic mould –
so beady, but yet still so bold?
On bright white wings, you’re lifted high,
but on whose bidding do you fly?
On what mission to destroy,
those angel’s wings a cunning ploy?
From what joviality
came your avian sinistrality*?
When you lift a claw to beak,
it isn’t always food you seek.
Oh, what the lock, what the chain,
released your small but wicked brain?
Oh, screaming bastard cockatoo,
did he who made the parasitic wasp make you?
*cockatoos are left-handed. Seriously. And they zoom around screeching and wrecking stuff for the pure joy of destruction. A lot like kids, really. And apologies to Blake, and a nod to Darwin. 😀