The eagle sat at the tiptop
Of a cedar tree, casually preening.
The raptor had no conception
Of how the awkward arbor was leaning.
The tree had spent many hours
Under the whip of the weather.
It gave in that day, but the eagle did stay,
Saying silently “just one more feather.”
That eagle dropped seventeen stories
Without even the thought to take wing,
So focused on ridding his feathers
Of that one ugly, hard-to-reach thing.
Thus died the last beautiful eagle
And the fashionable avian gene.
That’s why eagles today are so ugly,
And really don’t like to be seen.