Ballad of the Buzzard

Seductress scavenger, coy carrion collector,
Formidable fowl, oh, circling siren:
I cannot help but be enthralled
By your charred black pluck-ed wings,
And of those yellow red-rimmed gems
My heart indeed it sings.
I worship every bristled hair sticking from your crown,
And every featured feather that fits flippantly among your down.
You entreat me with your raspy squawk,
And by it I can be but brought.
Behold the long and slender neck, with its soft and gentle folds,
That sprouts from a spectacular mane, and to the head it holds.
Oh, to count the warts upon your flat and forward head,
Would be to count the amount of beasts that I would bring you dead.
If only you would let me give you all that I could,
All the dead and dying would be yours to have for good.
I would spin in circles o'er just to smell your odor,
And build the best of nests to be a haven for us older.
Your rusted lanky talons play my heartstrings songs of love.
It plays a tune more glorious than that stupid morning dove.
Your beak! Your beak, oh dreamlike you speak,
Its smooth surface caked with the carnage of the bleak.
I would stop a car for you, and a tractor-trailer too,
Just to eat on the highway with a buzzard such as you.
To feel your warmth,
To be your mirth,
To love for life,
And be your worth.
This dream of, I do each day
As I swing atop the morn's decay.
No matter if it's rabbit or fox,
Or cat or squirrel or hen or cocks,
I will always be with thoughts of you,
The buzzard with which I wish I flew.