Those blackbird gangs in the grove are
raucous; noisier than an Iowa caucus.
They do not sing but loudly gripe;
more dreadful than the sneaky snipe.
They perch on top finger of evergreen, then
sway to break top off, with laughter mean.
Do not let their lovely feathers’ sheen fool;
their blackbird hearts are ugly and cruel.
They chase the sparrows, intimidate robins;
take over a birdbath like neighborhood snobbins.
If you want blackbirds to bake in a pie,
I have recipes you’re welcome to try!
a poem in my pocket 
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