On yellow-stocking legs she arrogantly perches,,
As eyes, alike diamonds laid in jet,
Cast their gaze upon this man of Churches,
She calls out, much to my regret.
The cassocked cleric quick turns his head,
Mouth agape at such utterance profane,
Myself, I pray to Heaven : “Strike her stone dead !”
Yet undaunted, she screeches again.
Adorned singularly in her black-feathered cloak,
With bright mustard trimming the collar,
I stare her down, pretend naught was spoke,
But once more she deems fit to holler.
With a gesture expansive, I spread open my hands,
To make light of this whore from far Eastern lands,
Whose language is base, whose culture is naught :
Apart from the Jungle’s, where she was taught.
As the Monsignor fingers his rosary holy
I cast her a glance, sideways, and slowly,
But quick as a snake, opens that orange beak
And awards us once more a blasphemous shriek.
“Tell me,” he inquires, “who taught her such words?
Tis not commonplace found in tamed aviary birds.”
“Alas, her last owner,” I do solemnly reply,
“A colleague of yours, the Archbishop of Skye.”