What are you up to
Pied Wagtail?
I see the mischievous lilt
In your parkinsonian jitter
Lichen may cover the trees
But a pregnancy of pranks
Adorns your face
Like a depressed waitress’s
Make-up
But there’s no need to be confused
For I will sit on the whoopee cushion
At the end of the abyss
Just as you’d intended
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