Requiem for a Featherweight (Past)

     (Remember the drinking bird science toy? 

You may have called yours the insatiable birdie 

or the dunking bird or even (incorrectly) the 

dinky bird perpetual motion machine. Whatever 

you called yours, I assure you it was nothing 

like mine.) 

 
Say “slainte!” to me Drinkin’ Bird.
(His cocktail…? Shaken, never stirr’d.)
Propose a toast! Me clinkin’ bird
will belt his next, throw down a third,
a fourth, a…”’Nuf! Tha’s sinkin,’ Bird.
Tha face be flush’d. Tha speech be slurr’d.”
(Me Drinkin’ Birds’s one stinkin’ bird.)
 
“Tha’ll lose thy eyesight, Drinkin’ Bird,
if tha’s glaucoma goes uncur’d.”
(At home we calls ‘im “Winkin’ Bird”;
four floaters leave his pupils blurr’d.
But dons he specs…? Not Blinkin’ Bird.
His fear…? Folks label him a nerd.
(Me Drinkin’ Bird’s no thinkin’ bird.)
 
Play’d Steinways, did me Drinkin’ bird.
Like Liberace, Bird play’d furr’d
(all ermin’d up: no Minkin’ bird)
and swann’d about like hell, I’ve heard.
He oft were bill’d “Ye Plinkin’ Bird.”
(A memoir’s due. ‘Tis too absurd:
this turd’s become an inkin’ bird.)
 
“But ars runs longa, Drinkin’ bird.
Tha’s denoument’s too long deferr’d.
No longer be tha ‘Brink’in’ Bird.
Tha’s due to be in hearse chauffeur’d.
In zinc-lined urn shall Zincin’ Bird,
ex-drinkin’ buddy, be interr’d.
(En fin, me friend’s a Finkin’ Bird.)