They Still Serve Squab Here / Decadent Sonnet

The feathers rot so now they are the flesh,
or how those externalities conduct
necessity of bayleaf. Also plucked
from stirring in the soup, a tactless mess,
as if your purple tongue. These larks impress
seigneurs, upon a plate. These larks obstruct
the sweetness of the Alouette, abduct
the fullness. Bind the birds with care. Assess
Tyrolean caps: the plumes profess a still
adoration. Are all the forest greens
a camouflage. Are all the birds to kill—
can some be captured. Flight Brigades careen
towards with Hussar wings. They do not know
how nobly we murder, playing crows.

1 2