Dead bird, dead bird,

Lying on the road.

Once flew like an eagle,

Now dead in the abode.

The ground is stained with blood,

Black from tires above.

Now dull from rainy days and mud,

The once-dove lay flattened in the street,

Dead and lonely,

A lump of earth to passing feet.

Its feathers were ragged,

Torn and spread,

No flesh left

After the cat got ahead.

Only a carcass was left,

A monument to the flying creature.

And now after it's gone,

The nation watches the feature.

No one knows who the next one will be,

Or when it is due.

I sincerely hope that it won't be me.