At the top of each rising night
a mockingbird says what's on his mind to
sleeping hulks on a Hollywood hill, who snort
their snorts and then turn over;
And those startled awake by his fickle calls
will swear as he rides the midnight crescent to dawn,
they'll buy earplugs tomorrow;
But I, prickled with delight, write this
to an inspired bird pouring his soul out in pure lark
and thank all that's holy he's not a newscaster.
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