On the Death of Poor, Dear Polly

 
My pretty boy
shall squawk no more
from his perch
upon my shoulder
He pecked the last
flea from my ear
and then he
just rolled over
 
I'll miss his insults
screamed at me
he'd curse
in every weather  
and to fat old ladies
on the bus
he'd wink and
preen his feathers
 
If we happened on
a sailor
his language
could get brash
but I preferred
his shrieks of joy
when Manchester
got thrashed
 
The funeral needs
a plain affair
He never left
a will--
a simple shoebox
one short prayer
then cremation
on the hill