How rudely now the swallows come a-calling;
In droves they build their mud-nests on my house;
their ugly dirt comes loose with mud-drops falling,
and their poop-stains mark my walls from north to south.
Each nine-months they appear and stay for three
—winged parasites exploiting what is mine;
I long to knock them down to set me free,
but laws say if I do I'll get a fine.
But don't I own the rights to my own home?
It's mine for none to share unless I let them.
My right to choose is mine and mine alone,
and all that disagree—I'll just forget them.
Why should lives of birds make my life awful?
Why protect their eggs at my expense?
Why is my convenience deemed unlawful?
Why are these small lives worth such defense?
YOU ARE READING
On a Young Heart
PoetryA collection of my random poetic inspirations. Though they're not profound, I hope that everyone who reads them can find something special and meaningful in these words.
