It craked.  Hoarse and raw.
Footloose, on the wing, it looked down at us.
Perched in the roof-line gutter, craking on… 

The bird of fortune, named by accident,
rescued by goodwill, nurtured in our den,
drawing down our blackened greed, shimmering… 

“You gaaave me what I asked for;
I can see how much is there –
now I want more! More!! Mohre!!! Mohhre!!!!”