Things That Go "Chirp" in the Night

Ok, so yesterday I wrote about "Spring, Rebirth, Renewal, All that Crap." I am here today to talk about the "crap" part of the equation.

As we all know springtime is when all the birds get to chirping their fucking balls off. Well you know what they need to learn when to shut up, those little sons of bitches. For the past two nights as I lay down to sleep I have perceived a "chirping" or a "tweeting" sound coming from outside my window. As the night progresses the sound just keeps getting more and more pervasive until it becomes the only damn thing I can think about. The whole in my mind I am shouting "SHUT UP", PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO TO SLEEP YOU FUCKING VERMIN!!!." But does the bird stop, hell no, it just keeps tormenting me on and on. It finally gets to the point where I am predicting when the bird is going to chirp next. It is always the same damn rhythym. AHHHHHH......at least change the freaking tune for crying out loud you little worm eating, white shitting, migratory motherfucker. After some length of torture however, I am able to fall asleep. I guess it is like real torture, where after a while you build up a tolerance for it. But wait, Holy Nightingale Batman, I awake at about 5:30 to piss and what do I wake up to? A FUCKING BIRD CHIRPING!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! Forget "the early bird gets the worm" I have at least four birdfeeders in my yard, get some damn sleep you feathered demon. It is to the point where I just want to walk outside with my 12 gauge find the stool pigeon and blow it to kingdom come. I need my damn sleep and I be a monkey's uncle if I let a damn bird come between me and Mr. Sandman. Just think and it is only the 3rd day of Spring. SHIT!!!!! What business does a bird having chirping at night anyway....none they just do it to annoy me. It is somekind of world avian conspiracy that keeps me from having a good night's sleep during the spring and summer.

So now I will take my leave with the immortal words of John Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale" who kept his ass awake at night and he ended up needing to get hammered just to fall asleep "O, Nocturnal Songbirds, Scourge of God."

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness, - That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?