To Train A Mockingbird

So at this point I’ve spent at least two years standing by the tree in front of the office, whistling the tune from the Hunger Games films for our resident mockingbird.

Ambitious? Hardly. After all, this bird can warble the cantina song from Star Wars, so I know that it can manage four notes. Also, the other day, I swear it gave me a sample of that aria from The Magic Flute, you know, the elaborate one the Queen of the Night sings about the hot hell-vengeance of the heart.*

(How apt.)

This f*cking bird is just messing with me now.

 

 

*Or whatever. Look, my German is non-existent, save for a poem about a statue that my father once tried (and failed) to teach me. Which he probably learned from his father, and so forth. Thanks, Austro-Hungarian empire! On the other hand, I can say but not spell the Hungarian for…I think it means something like “she-dragon,” and seems to have been applied to my grandmother by every Speace who wasn’t my grandfather (and for good reason, she was a world-class b!+c#). BTW, I am totally getting this word tattooed somewhere on my body on the glorious day I finally decide I give absolutely zero f*cks.

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