I woke early one morning, The earth lay cool and still, When suddenly a tiny bird, Perched on my windowsill, He sang a song so lovely, So carefree and so gay, That slowly all my troubles, Began to slip away. He sang of far off places, Of laughter and of fun, It seemed his very trilling, Brought up the morning sun. I stirred beneath the covers, Crept slowly out of bed, Then gently shut the window, And crushed his fucking head. I'm not a morning person.
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