The LIfe 'n' Death o' Drinkin' Bird

 

Recall that drinking bird 

science toy? You may have 

called yours insatiable birdie 

or dunking bird or even 

(incorrectly) dinky bird 

magic 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 

The 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 once 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.)