golden age

the morning bird perches fat and proud on the rooftops
belts out his song of the airy state of the world as he sees it
bursting with pomp and pride
little feathered head full of steam
i hear him down below but his confident trills
fail to register with my fading senses

seems he's spent so long on the rooftops
he's forgotten what the torn-up concrete looks like
between sooty cracked-plaster walls
can't fault him for staying up there i suppose

i head back inside and flip on the news
where my proud congressman's mapped the path
for our grand auld nation in its golden age

i turn off the tv and head back outside
to listen to the birds