When there is nothing left to do,

No food to hunt or water to find,

No predators claimed “kings”,

Or cover to claim,

The Caged Bird Sings.

There is something grounding,

Yet freeing all the same,

Of the whistle of a parakeet,

One who has no shame.

We hold a song to standards,

We hold them up so high,

That when the bird starts screaming,

We only see absence of beauty; a lie.

The birds will open their beaks,

Tongues split and foam dripping from their mouths,

And when the townspeople scream,

They won’t think twice.

With short bursts of screeches and feathers pulled from their seams,

The caged bird sings with joyous delight.