fowl

birds of the feather,

chirp at the dead bodies,

laying stiff in the winter,

that were killed foul,

by the evil beak,

of the wicked fowl,

in the spring of hunger,

where they starved,

for the blood of hope,

but were only fed,

lies to their unlearned head,

so now they swoop,

above the cries of change,

only to feast on the seeds,

from the same hand,

but blindly expect the taste,

to be different