Robins

I can hear them singing even before                    
I'm fully conscious, so I'm leaving my dream                    
just knowing those damned robins                    
are shitting on my car.                    
                     
I had to have it when I saw it                    
red and black                    
shining like neon                    
glowing like the slick slippery heart                    
of a city.           
I had to crawl inside it when I heard its cry                    
screaming straight from the burning bones                    
of the carboniferous tyrannosaurs              
atomized and ignited in its cruel rumbling belly.                    
It was not as ostentatious as American muscle,                    
but any Yakuza brat would find it fine                    
to tear about to his haunts in Tokyo's towers.                    
My friends called it a mid-life crisis                    
but I knew what I was doing                    
what all this was about.                    
Slick tint, soft black leather and sexscreaming red,       
that it almost glowed with conspicuous consumption    
well those were just bonuses.                    
The seller didn’t seem to know why he had it                    
offering to replace the passenger seat with tanks of nitrous.         
The fool, that seat was what the rest was made for.                    
I can't be just a slow man in a fast car.                    
I've played a young man's game all my life                    
and won't sell it short now.                    
                     
Though I knew exactly what it's for                    
it seems so do the robins.                    
The mirrors hang like stout black birds                    
with an obscene red underbelly                    
heaving out beneath.                    
Not the birds I had in mind,                    
they loiter perched upon my mirrors looking to score                    
shitting all over my shine.                    
Right response, wrong species.                    
                   
Feigning that I've given free reign to my inner stalker           
I slow roll through the college streets                    
as the birds flit about with bare legs                    
and half-skirts, ruffling feathers of their own  
playing a different game, in which I have no part.             
I ache to lure them to my shining cage                    
but when the occasional one drifts in                    
shitting all over my life,                      
taking her dust baths in little piles of my money  
eventually it winds down to a new night                    
when I find myself alone,                    
and I take my half-empty car out into the moonlight       
slide open the sunroof, kill the headlights and erase the fast and smooth
twenty miles from my farm into town                    
thinking maybe I was the one who was seduced                   
lured in by knowing what she was for.