Frustration

Gazing to gold seraph wing, With wistful wonder in my eyes, A blue-behinded ape, I swing Upon the palms of Paradise. A parakeet of gaudy hue Upon a flame tree smugly rocks; Oh, we're a precious pair, we two, I gibber while the parrot squawks. "If I had but your wings," I sigh, "How ardently would I aspire To soar celestially high And mingle with yon angel choir." His beady eye is bitter hard; Right mockingly he squints at me; As critic might review a bard His scorn is withering to see. And as I beat my brest and howl, "Poor fool," he shrills, my bliss to wreck. So . . . so I steal behind that fowl And grab his claw and screw his neck. And swift his scarlet wings I tear; Seeking to soar, with hope divine, I frantically beat the air, And crash to earth and - snap my spine. Yet as I lie with shaken breaths Of pain I watch my seraph throng. . . . Oh, I would die a dozen deaths Could I but sing one deathless song!