O shrieking woman of early morn:
You shatter the silence with your horrid voice.

You’re black and beautiful
with a shaggy throat.

But no heavenly beauty can redeem for such a hellish voice.

The others sing a melody,
delightful harmonious cacophony.
But you, my dear, just squawk and caw
ear-twinging screams
of laboring squaw.
I daresay your nails
on a chalkboard slate
would produce a sound
more pleasant
more pleasing
less grating.

The others’ calls
welcome the day
and herald the sun

but I fear your war cries
will kill the day,
send the sun in full retreat,
and leave us in darkness.

Shut up.