You cannot be the Song

They call me the Sinatra bird.
This I am not: I cannot be the song.
I sing it backstage;
yet, they keep me in a cage,
as a kind of a pet.
It bounces when
they pull the chain. It rolls
around; it spins.
But when it rains
my feathers change—

I shed this cage like the snake
I am. My skin—fancy that—
a razzmatazz at the climax
of a dance hall musical.
I hide in the old tire
that Junior keeps under
the lion’s cage.
Even a snake wants his freedom.
Imagine me! In a cage!

I’ll sing it for you:
(whistles)
You cannot be the song alone.
Two minds must crave it before…
before freedom begins.
(Whistles.)
Awk-awk!
Polly want a cracker?