I Hate Them BirdsI hate them birds flying overhead,
It means a critter or man is dead.
There might still be a spark of life,
But them birds know when the time is right.
They never seem to flap their wings,
Just ride the wind over dyin' things.
First there's two, and then there's five;
Whatever they're watching won't survive.
How do they know when their dinner's there?
They seem to appear from out of nowhere...
What kind of sense did God give them birds
To know when a man has said his last words?
Watchin' them fly is a helpless curse,
But when they land it's even worse;
They watch a man with their flat, black eyes,
Countin' the minutes until he dies.
Their heads are ugly, naked things,
And bob about as if on springs;
Their beaks are razor- sharp and strong–-
When they get that close, it won't be long.
First they'll tear out a poor critter's eyes,
Delicious and juicy just after it dies;
Then their talons will tear open the flesh,
Exposing the innards the birds like best.
I've been layin' here now for three or four days
Thinkin' ‘bout nothin' but them birds and their ways;
With my Colt to my head, I croak my last words:
"I really HATE them danged buzzard birds!"
©Copyright2004 Boston John Doucette
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