Seventeen lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane,
Telling me I’ve overslept, even though my eyes have only closed.
Seventeen lamenting seagulls reminding me that life goes on, despite my tired legs and heaving chest, and desire to tape their beaks and my eyes shut.
Sixteen lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane. If I’m to be awake when I should sleep, because the sea-raptors decree it so, then one less will not be missed. After all life goes on, and I will be lamenting far longer than they.
Sixteen more nights, then no lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane, to remind me that nothing ever really changed.
Who needs sleep when you’re alive and full of chips and fish, and taking life on the wing?
Sea-chicken tastes just as good as a late night snack, enjoyed with a nice-cold beer to numb the head and wash down birdie cries,
That boast so loudly, and so proudly of my and their demise.

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