Squatting in a squared-off cave
With slim sun-beams streaming in
Plumage trimmed and thinned and growing paler by the day
He croaks out his obscene song
Sounding notes in different keys
Lyrics in different languages
And every word profane
Yet he is the quiscaline center of a flock
That comes and goes
Shrinks and grows
And he knows
That the song he sings will stick with some
While others will hear and not heed
And others yet will heed for a time
Before losing the melodic line
And having to come back again
After they had thought to migrate away
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