Little birdie

Little yellow birdie,
whachu thinking?

Perched atop a sun-kissed shrub,
you crane your neck and gaze ahead,
with a frenzied, manic intensity,
well whachu thinking, little birdie? :)
Underneath that feathered head,
are you the general, of this warbling fleet,
set on orchestrating the next great siege,
from bush to shrub, and sometimes fern,
down in the trenches where it all begun?

Or are you, in fact, seeking out,
your philandering husband, on his return route,
from, and you'd bet your mortgage on it,
the pudgy blue-tailed wench,

to whose home curiously all roads tend, 

especially for that son of a bitch, 

who cohabits your bush,
in ways more than one, you shall admit.
You've even seen him size her up,
much like the other cockfolk too eager to coo,
which makes you think,
"fuck this shit, I gots better things to do."

Or maybe you're just thinking?
Contemplating the subtle mechanisms,
by which time flows, and chaos grows,
and space-travel may not be so far,
birds may colonize Mars,
thusly expected,
but before that, it would be nice, wouldn't it?
if you had your morning coffee,
a nice shower, a bagel,
topped with the most dewy worm,
the Grasslands could serve,
so you can go back to beaking the shit
out of whichever tree that grinds your nerves!

Little yellow birdie,
whachu thinking? :)