Tent Series: Sing, Little Bird

Sing, little bird
You are my prize
You think yourself
So very wise

That people read
What you have writ
Well, I will put
A stop to it

Not suddenly
Oh, my, no
I intend
That it be slow

Broken glass
Left in your path
I’ll just let you
Do the math

Bags of my shit
Will multiply
When you walk
Around them try

Dangerous tools
Strewn by me
Your path will be

And nails a good
Two inches long
Hidden fresh-raked
Grass among

Such thin plastic
Driven through
As no one would
Have reason to

And as you pass
Always give voice
To some loud
Unwelcoming noise

That’s of course
If no one’s looking
Whom I wish not
Know what’s cooking

I want you
Helpless rage know
And in fear and
Discomfort go

Then leisurely
Oh, by and by,
When you get hurt,
To see you cry

And ‘falsely’ blamed
Your torment for!
You can’t refuse!
You stay for more!


The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:


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