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Sleeping Wing
Oh, the working man labors on
Till the new night hatches out the nest
And spreads about the world
He’s tired up waiting to leave
His treehole waits with puckered patience
Puckered like the filthy anus
To kiss his precious presence
He climbs up to the crimson limb
To the tree’s sloping shoulder
He hoots the day’s last hoot
He tries to catch a glimpse of fourty winks
And throws out all the filthy feathers
Worn out from the day
He calms his stirring energy
And slowly falls asleep
As the owl needs his home
So the hole does need him too
