Once I Shot My Favourite Bird

It was free and so was I, what would wish to be if reincar…
Regret is a killer, lining up target with finger on trigger.
Little boy, and little bird, barrel of a beebee gun between.
Moist grey day, moss and tall trees, eels in the streams.
Used to aim at cans, projecting copper coloured balls, POW-TING.
They are still my favourite, inquisitive, friendly and so artful in the air.
Oh, as it fell. I tried but didn’t think I would. But did.
‘Dead eye-dick’, sport turned tragic, glory glossed over, very sad.
It had sat on a branch just two meters away, to say “G’day”.
My short brown hair, different coloured eyes, probably gumboots, and a gun.
‘Sorry’ will not do, nothing can be done, no manliness was won.
Still, the tiny lifeless body lay, on the leaves and libms composed.
Soo profoundly a single shot at life each has, all at eachothers mercy.
“Goodbye” my friend, fly with me forever, I wish I could be you.