To Tino the bird, who died last night.
Tino the bird lived in a dirty cage
He ate what we gave him and drank dirty water every day
He lived in solitude, alone and the cold he braved
Suffered winds, rains, raccoon and even the occasional hawk
And every time we opened his cage he moved away in disdain
And bites those who would dare to get close to him
Yet within his rusted cage he looked out and talked to every-bird he heard
He sang for every noise made
Whether crow, finch, or seagull he played
A song always coming from his noble brain
Now he is no more, just a birds body lying on the bottom of the cage floor
Nevermore to sing for those who would visit his door
Goodbye Tino the bird
Your pain and song is done
Whrandom Writings 