“Such a lovely morning,”
hummed the mockingbird
perched upon his favorite branch
as the sun crept into the sky
“Good morning,” he sang
to the meadow stretched before him

The mockingbird was not alone
In the meadow that fine morn’
The crows were up
And they were hungry

With cackles and caws they thundered
Towards the singing mockingbird
“Good morning,” he sang pleasantly
as they landed on his branch

One squawked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m singing,” he replied
and without another thought
he continued unphased

“There will be no singing in our meadow.”
“Why not?” “Because I said so.”
The mockingbird was confused
As the murder advanced

He only wanted to sing
Give his music to the world
The murder flew away
Left him gasping, dying
Wondering what he had done
The meadow was silent.