To a Skylark

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

I’m not a bird. I’m not an airplane. I might be Superman, but I haven’t decided yet. Some people call me a skylark, but that is degrading. I’m far more special than that. I melt purple, and in broad daylight I sound like a 12 year old girl shrieking. To one lonely poet, I apparently look akin to a moonbeam, but I can’t seem to find the resemblance. He also compared me to other various, sissy things like rainbow drops and melody showers. One comparison that I cannot forgive is that of a maiden in a tower crooning love songs to herself. How nauseating is that?

I might have been able, after a very long time, to forgive him for comparing me to a glow-worm or a rain-awakened flower, but then he had to go and liken me to a rose that makes bees faint. After that the scoundrel had the audacity to ask if I would teach him how to sing! I just laughed. If this fruit-loop thinks he could sing if I taught him, hit me with a brick. Dear blossom-heart, such “harmonious madness” is already flowing from your lips, and no one is listening!