[embed](/static/images/fcfcf8f0f0f4c07f.jpg) Upon the shining shore they glide With hollow wings spread open wide No feather grown from flesh and bone But circuit, wire, and microphone They wheel and dip with practiced grace A bureaucratic, borrowed face Their glass-bead eyes record the scene While servers hum somewhere unseen The sun reflects on painted breast No egg beneath, no downy nest They cry a cry of processed sound And scan the free souls on the ground How bright the day How blue the shore How watchful those who seem to soar The ordinary man looks up "What lovely birds!" and lifts his cup. But I, who know the hollow thing Salute them not, nor watch them sing For flesh and blood I trust alone Leave government to mind its own @stupidbird