"The birds greet the morning"

The birds greet the morning
like a bunch of mo-rons
as if at first light, they're already
a crowd of drunks, and
too far gone to modulate
their tone, or even yell a thing
that's interesting, or new, no, just
loud, not listening, talking over each other
their favorite strains: well-practiced
and worn, again and again they rasp
and squawk and trill and call,
and caw, because each only knows
one thing. And they want you to know,
and everyone else. And they're not listening,
but if they were, it would only be for the sound
of some other too far gone one-song asshole
giving them their favorite thing back.
Even with the windows closed, crack!
At the crack of dawn, cacophony and me
inside, wishing I could chime in reasonably,
and quiet the whole milieu, which I can do
with drunks. Drunks also only hear
the sound of their own call,
for the most part, but you can imitate that
and break in, and sing them down. Birds,
though, don't. And being strictly wild, too,
they never learned to use
their inside voice.