Dead Bird - True Story

A bird lies in the middle of my lawn,
he’s dead so kinda looks a bit forlorn!
Looking at my lawn – I need to mow it
but looking at the bird I might forgo it.
His feathers thread the grass at angles morbid.
The neighbours say my lawn is rather sordid –
scoop up the bird and throw it they insist,
but I freeze mid scoop; my eyes begin to mist.
It has settled in a spot where I can tell,
it can hear the toll of birdy heaven’s bell,
a comfort to it in its hour of need,
more than tasty nuts and birdy seed,
more than wishful winging thro the skies.
(the neighbours I’m beginning to despise)

It is rotting now and oozing something black
the grass around it I begin to hack.
This little place will be his final spot
for my neighbours I’m caring not a jot.
The cut lawn – it retains a sacred place;
the bird it has a smile upon its face,
so cute but must admit its body reeks,
yet worms swim smiling in the fluid that it leaks;
nearby insects, flex their mandibles real snappy.
Seems only that the neighbours who’re not happy!