The Thrush

The thrush is back these mornings, singing his loud aria an hour before the dawn! Time to revive this poem  from the pages of my Outrageous Poems.
I curse and swear to hear
The thrush sing at dawn.
Push off, you little fecker,
I hate your blasted song.
I pull the wretched blanket
Up around my ears;
But still your throbbing arias
My tender eardrums pierce.
Where are you
At the afternoon of the day,
When I sit in the conservatory
With my cup of tay?
The robin comes to call me
To the garden,
And the blackbird sings his heart out
To his darling.
But all day long
Your voice is dormant.
No doubt resting
For a dawn performance.
Since you persist in this,
I cry out, and beg
The mad and cackling magpies
To hack your sky-blue egg 

And harass you
Until you fly away
To the plains of Africa,
Where they dawn-rise anyway.

Recitation of "The Thrush" by the author:

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