ROOK
Your tailor is a disgrace, the way he has let you out
Into the world so dishevelled, so lacking in grace.
Look at those loose-fitting feathers, silks out of place,
And threads hanging loosely when they should be taut
And black, not dish-water grey. The hems of your garment
Are falling down from behind and feathery threads
Are an embarrassment of stitches. Lucky for you, bird,
Without the dinner-jackets of jackdaws, lacking in socks,
Your invitations to dinner are in far fields; a third
Of your food is in roads of muck or on corrugated sheds
And all your embarrassment is camouflaged in flocks.