Rockin’ The Robin

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Suggested Audio:

 

Fatboy Slim “Bird of Prey”

 

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“He rocks in the tree-top all a day long
Hoppin’ and a-boppin’ and a-singin’ the song
All the little birds on J-Bird St.
Love to hear the robin goin’ tweet tweet tweet”

 

Well, everybody’s heard about the bird. I have been perched rather comfortably in my Twitter nest for the some time now, making my feathered bed daily and chirping to anyone who finds my call enticing. Not everybody exposed to my work are bird lovers; some fly the nest bewildered the moment I show them my beak. However, by and large, the response to me flapping my feathers has been more than a little encouraging and enabled me to reach something approaching wingspan. I put myself forward for martyrdom by saying that which often goes unspoken, revealing myself to my readership rather than holding my cards to my chest, and putting myself out there warts and all in the name of connecting with fellow tweeps. I just realized that I make myself out to sound like some kind of unhinged subway flasher. Two things: firstly, I’m speaking metaphorically and, secondly, there are no unsightly growths on this pecker.

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As you’ll all be aware at this point, I’m not a great fan of Facebook. Twitter has always been my preferred fence post from which to sing my song and I have found it an invaluable social media tool with regards to sharing my rapturous parables. 140 characters is ample for a bird whom wishes not to harp on but instead chooses to let his work do the talking on his behalf and, truth be told, I simply find it far more accessible. It’s far from flawless and, like every other social media outlet, it can dumbfound me to the point of exhaustion. Constant unaccommodating updates, flawed direct message feeds, the ever-palpable threat of security compromise, and ample spam to feed the entire team of Monty Python for a year all come directly to mind. But it’s the lesser evil as far as I’m concerned.

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“Every little swallow, every chickadee
Every little bird in the tall oak tree
The wise old owl, the big black crow
Flapping them wings sayin’ go bird go”

 

A fair number of fellow tweeps have lit that follow button in the time I have been warbling and that, along with the unprecedented support I have received, has left me feeling rather humbled. It is nigh on impossible keeping track of the constant activity and some of you I’ve barely had a moment to nibble the worm with, so to speak, but each time I throw morsels your way, those flapping wings and retweets light me up akin to a jack-a-lantern. Warm cockles ensue and my flight becomes considerably more fanciable shall we say. It’s far better to be a soaring kestrel than an earth-bound ostrich and your love and support ensures that I never feel like the latter. Actually, I prefer to think myself as possessing the flight kit of a kestrel, married with the head of an ostrich, as you tell me a single person alive that doesn’t find those dudes mildly hilarious and I’ll lay a speckled egg right here in your lap.

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I have been known to be an incorrigible flirt and make no attempt to hide this. It has been so invigorating receiving such warmth from so many chickadees and I can tend to run away with my mouth on occasion. But I’m no bird of prey, invariably my utterances are as benign as the congenial pigeon. I trot around your feet picking up breadcrumbs and sometimes cannot help but take a cunning peek up your raiment as I spot petticoats like a Magpie does bacofoil. I blame this on a misspent youth watching Lemon Popsicle flicks and the excessive masturbation which ensued. I use the word love freely and do so because I mean that shit. You see, I’m all about terms of endearment, and believe that what you put out there informs what others drop in your nest. Fly around shitting on your neighbors and one day they’ll take a dump in your backyard. Pay love forward and, while you may have less fertilizer with which to harvest your crops, your shrubbery will never smell like assholes.

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“A wordy little raven at the bird’s first dance
Taught him how to do the bop and it was grand
He started goin’ steady and bless my soul
He out popped the buzzard and the oriole”

 

I have never really been one to get tongue-tied or, at least, not since first dipping the Crimson Quill and applying it to parchment. Being very open about one’s self alleviates the need for constant back-tracking or covering tracks. My path is well documented and the neon lights always feverishly flashing as I trundle forth on a daily basis into the Twitterverse. I may have even whipped out my buzzard on rare occasion and consider this breadcrumb a token of my appreciation for all your kindness. You see, I’ve overcome many inhibitions since commencing this pilgrimage, and have become effortlessly at ease with the exhibitionist inside me screaming to be released. It’s mostly under wraps now as my inner naturist is currently content and, besides, birds look far less savory once you’ve plucked off their feathers. However, I still lay myself naked metaphorically each time I scribe.

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My work has led me to some rather seedy locales, none more so than when in beast mode around the festivities of 2013. There were essays excreted during that dubious period which actually required me to strip nude, honestly they did. It’s not as though I was prowling the shadows, flashing my jousting pugil at unsuspecting pensioners hollering “I’m going all up in yo’ vadge” or anything distasteful like that. The only witness to my bare exploits was Mother Earth herself and she assured me that it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. Having said that, she did leave a pair of her soiled underwear lying around on New Year’s Day and I’m convinced she’d been squirting that flower. Either that or she needs to find a new washing detergent.

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“He rocks in the tree-top all a day long
Hoppin’ and a-boppin’ and a-singin’ the song
All the little birds on J-Bird St.
Love to hear the robin goin’ tweet tweet tweet”

 

I think it would be fair to say that I border on workaholic. Nary a day passes when I haven’t some presence on Twitter; although recently I may have appeared conspicuously absent. Whether just checking in or hovering atop my feed for long periods while I glance wings with any frequent flyers, I’m never far from the nest. Twitter has afforded me the most trauma-free way in which to stay connected and keeps things just ambiguous enough for it not become a meddlesome media. For that I am rather indebted. There are a lot worse ways to make friends and influence people than Twitterdom. My case in point is this: I could be hanging out to the rear of shady bars having my junk fondled by leather-clad bikers or frequenting the local bingo halls befriending those whom may not have a pulse come sunrise. I much prefer the full house of Twitter and, besides, senior citizens smell funny, none more so than when the air conditioning packs up.

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Of course, it hasn’t all been catching worms and singing shanties. A protracted period cooped up in Twitter Jail was once my penance for a crime I was never made aware of by the powers that be and I sat there in my poky cell sprouting unruly chin tufts that Shaggy would have scoffed at, while they decided the severity of my punishment. Other than that somewhat disparaging affair, they’ve just let me go about my daily business with minimum fuss so I guess the blue bird deserves a gentle pat on its back, just this once mind. I shall continue to flap my wings for the foreseeable. As long as they’re not callously clipped without warning then I have to admit that I’m actually kind of fond of this sanctuary. Should that qualify me as a fully fledged bird-brain then I’m all for a little harmless feathered cranial acupuncture. If it enables me to chirp away with fellow bird-brains then I’m all in long before the flop. I’m no bird of prey; just that friendly neighborhood Jackdaw that enjoys flying low whenever the mini-skirts are out for summer. Thanks for joining me at my bird bath; now isn’t it time we loosen these overbearing feathers?

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GREY KEEPER FRAME

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