My Big Green Box

On most moist, moonlit mornings 

post the vernal equinox, 

I wake to dual warnings 

from a pair of Plymouth Rocks,
their cock-a-doodlings not unlike 

twin arias of Bach's.
(Both cocks and I reside in my 

calliope-green box.)

My neighbors won't (or, so far, don't) 

berate me 'bout my birds. 

"An egg from you (just one would do) 

could smooth things, nu...?" (Their words.)  

Do pay we heed to neighbors' need...? 

The populorum vox...? 

We do, we three -- my cocks 'n' me 

and my goatee-green box. 

"This house of yours, its closet doors, 

its hardwood floors: why green...? 

We hues of blue could list for you -- 

three hundred seventeen,"

my neighbors fuss. I answer thus: 

"Good friends, if sev'ral blocks

around one treks, there's none erects 

a like Tex-Mex-green box."

 

Perhaps you've seen me on TV -- 

on "Wide, Wide World of Warts."

I spew some news and view "Who's Who"s 

in esoteric sports.

All this I do on Channel Two. 

(I'm e'er eschewing Fox.)

I, up at 3:00, down caffeined tea 

then flee my sea-green box.   

     (More verses, plus images, to come; a work in progress)