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I woke today to a symphony

of morning sounds and sights:

yellow birds sang “Always”,

an old Irving Berlin tune,

the fog was gone,

the sun was high,

dewdrops sparkled like fine crystal

and satin clouds watched peonies

write poems to butterflies.

 

But I hate things that flutter

and I’m not a morning person.

I’d rather hear the sound of coins

jingling in night’s pockets,

to fetch its pipe and slippers

and ice down its champagne.

I want my yellow birds en croute

and my butterflies on pins

and I wait for purple martins

that sing songs

by Mel Torme.