On The Zest Of Zippid E. DooDaah


I’ve made up with the DooDaahs in whole or in part.
What the bird thinks he’s saying is through the artist
Who created him as his own alter ego.
Through the lines of the character, we come to know
Deep within the rose velvet, there is a tight fist
That is poised to punch poignant those of a meek heart.

Does the gentleman bluebird waste much of its time
Hanging out on the shoulders of arrogant fools?
If he does, he’s a DooDaah. That matter is fact.
Then to call the bird ‘mister’ is not how to act.
That it’s blue matters somewhat, according to rules
Interweaved in the fabric of nature’s high crime.

You are right, Mr. DooDaah. It is a fine day.
We each wax satisfactual to our own tune.
I don’t whistle my doodaahs out loud out of fear
That some actual DooDaah would hand me a spear.
Then I’d raise it and yell something strange to the moon.
When it comes to the DooDaahs, I am not their prey.

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