Wednesday, April 10, 2024

It Wasn't A Nightingale


Least of our problems is the nightingale,

Which will not live in Denver. It must be

The altitude, the air Professor Dust,

Or all the folks from Texas moving here.

Sure, I should like to hear him sing to sleep

Weary baristas, shaking on the grounds

They cannot keep a songbird of their own.

Yes, it might cheer my grandma, if I had one,

Make her recall that once her skin was snug;

But if its old plaint was only loss and love,

You amid roses, sweetpeas on your pants,

I'd just as soon converse with crows and grackles.

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