Farewell to flowers. Our bird no longer feeds
On nectar from morning glory, larkspur, sage….
Seems that sugar water’s all he really needs.
Farewell to beauty sprung from Erda’s seeds;
To honeysuckle puckered to engage
Avian kisses. Now each time he feeds
His beak probes a tiny plastic slit that bleeds
Liquor he can always count on to assuage
Great thirst. (Phlox no longer satisfies his needs).
His sex life’s humming; always he succeeds
In seducing nubile groupies, lured onstage
By free drinks. They pay dearly for such feeds!
Unabashed polygamy! Everybody breeds!
In a world where procreation’s all the rage
He’s found a singles bar to meet his needs.
To the gods of progress our hummingbird accedes.
Do we offer freedom? Or just a tighter cage?
On lilac and foxglove our bird no longer feeds.
Are artificial flowers really all he needs?