Birds of Similar Feathers

Birds of similar feathers

They ought to stick together

They could fly so high forever

Oh birds of similar feathers

Doesn’t matter if they’re blue or green

As long as they have wings

If only people could fly

But then we might run out of sky.

Oh horses, of course, run in fields

With their hooves thundering like steel

And dogs, you know, bark in tune

Usually at the moon

If only people would try

To fly, run and bark instead of buy, buy, buy

Well, maybe things would change for the better

I’ll ask everyone to sign a letter.

Miles looked up over his reading glasses, surprised to hear Harold singing in pitch and in time. Much to his delight, Miles actually liked the tune. Oh my, he said to himself, it’s happening. I’m shitfaced drunk or I’m going bonkers.

Harold ran down the stairs, holding his head on to his shoulders with one hand, and his vintage banjo in the other. Best of all, Harold had on clothes—a pair of pink checkered boxers, a pink tee shirt, pink socks, and steel toed boots. Breathless, even for a ghost, Harold stopped in front of Miles. “I have a new song,” he said.

“Yes,” Miles said. “I heard. Color me purple, but I think I like it.” Of course, Miles had started in on another bottle of fine Rum that he ordered from Amazon. It had just the right amount of color, and was as smooth as a cats nose.