The Red Cardinal's Ad Campaign

The red cardinal is coming!
Winter is on its queer way.
The red cardinal's trying to synch
up your anticipation of its apparition
with that first dusting of fairy snow.
The one that will make it truly glow!
The red cardinal will thrum and thrutter
with digicam-worthy zealotry
in a small naked tree
near your kitchen or backdoor window.
It will shakes its wings
as if its entire body has sneezed,
explode with snow confetti
and be vivid as blood against the void!
It promises to be "a heart attack of pure poetry."
The red cardinal does, however,
have a few caveats before the show.
The red cardinal wants you to know
that slatey junco is a whore.
And the red cardinal must confide that those grackles
are about as disgusting in the opinions they hold of you
as that creepy wheeze they make.
The red cardinal feels obligated to add
your beloved pine siskin is actually "a winged little snake."
The red cardinal would like you to know
that even rats leave out "pity food"
for sparrows. So if you feed sparrows
you might as well sharpen your front teeth
and live on a steakbone's marrow,
build your house on a garbage barrow.
The red cardinal says it's clearly
the house finch who shits on your Hyundai.
The red cardinal says that grosbeaks
make implausible parents;
its wholly transparent
half the children they raise are gay.
The red cardinal says chickadees
care only for sunflower seeds and praise
and the indiscriminate fuck
of which they mostly partake
on statues of Mary or other divinities
you may keep in your yard,
and they're very contentious
and find your BMW pretentious.
The red cardinal can't wait
to give you the poem you want,
when you see it tilt, tilting its tail,
the brightness in its cocked eye
an acknowledgment of your gleeful stare.
It promises never to eat your dead cat
(the one that got hit by the UPS guy)
like the horrible family of crows
(who were already so fat!)
and it really hates itself
for telling you that.
The red cardinal thinks you just ought to know
those cowbirds are promiscuous,
your beloved bluejay is a thug,
the starling you smile upon's a terrible gossip,
and oh, the goldfinch has hair plugs.
Of course, everbody and their cleaning lady
knows Ms. Towhee spends her evenings
in that barberry bush, Lady Scrub.
And Mister Nuthatch hasn't worked in years.
Even his wife says he's a total schlub.
The red cardinal prays nightly
that bevy of mourning doves
will acknowledge the obvious problem
of their perilous weight
before it's too late.
The red cardinal is filled with love
and cannot wait
for you to take its picture
in a poem, a photo or the admiration of your soul.