The Red-Headed Macaw

I swapped a parakeet for a red-headed Macaw
That drank my rum and called me paw
I’d rock in my chair, she’d swing on her perch
When the preacher came around she’d pretend it was church

On Saturday mornings when we drove into town
She’d ride on the back of my blue-tick hound
Howling in unison while we made the rounds

She worked out a scheme with a barber named Ed
Alleviating customers of any spare change they had
by rolling over and playing dead

She stayed with me near fourteen years
Drinking rum, always near
Then one day she bolted towards the sun
So I filled her with buckshot from my trusty old shotgun

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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

— Shakespeare