Harlequin

my owner doesn't know i have damned wings

What do I need to do fill your cup

Slap an arse on a chair
glue-ridden
Have a vulture shred my ankles to fair
bone
Sew a beak together with needle and thread
Harvest five feathers off with a bread
knife if I roam too close to Icarus'
hindrances to your "education"

Poor, sick mister.
cannot find anyone else to do part till death
so to escape His sickle
you lock me in a birdhouse till my wings
wrinkle