There I sat in the coldest of weather,
On a park bench in a snow covered strip,
Next to a bird of blackened feather,
Whose beak did foster a puzzling chip.

And out that chip a deep red blood did pour,
A blood that covered the snow-ridden ground,
A blood that surfaced from its very core,
A blood that preceded an awful sound.

It was like a sound I've never since heard,
A sound deaf to the tender ears of man,
Like the cry of a dying man averred,
Who had lost all hope for he saw no land.

After this final scream his eyes went red,
And soon enough the tiny bird was dead.