Three shadows the size of a housecat wobbling their
heads down the street barking about who lost
the horn they used to share. One would scratch their beak
on the brass mouthpiece. One would dance on the button
knobs and the smallest would wave his wing over the
backward funnel back and forth.
There’s no horn, so now they just squabble in that sycamore
scaring the superstitious neighbors.
heads down the street barking about who lost
the horn they used to share. One would scratch their beak
on the brass mouthpiece. One would dance on the button
knobs and the smallest would wave his wing over the
backward funnel back and forth.
There’s no horn, so now they just squabble in that sycamore
scaring the superstitious neighbors.
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