Singers are a necessary evil
And the reciters are much the same lot:
It’s too rare to meet one who has the will
To serve silent beauties often forgot.
No one sees brilliant plumage on a cat
But the feline is a master of love
And he has his repertoire of song that
Is not half so pompous as those above.
I am content as I am: as slender
As the mouser, no lion, nor a bird,
But one who with a black-tipped quill of fur
Can out the window gaze to find a word,
For the birds have their song and I have mine
And both can serve to glory the Divine.

This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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