Sonnenizio on a Line from Wendy Cope

Sonnenizio on a Line from Wendy Cope

I had this bird called Sharon. Fond of gin—
it could do the Gingerbread Man in different voices.
After a couple of gin slings, it could out-dance
Ginger Rogers from its perch. I played the harmonica

badly. Behind the scenes. Like noise from cotton gin
ruining the sunrise. I drank gin rickey until
I became a sore virgin, the losing end of a speech
impediment, gingivitis. It made me clean its cage

in my original D&G bathrobe and plastic clogs.
There, myna droppings juxtaposed gingersnaps.
The smell fizzed gin and tonic up my nose.
It called me names. It mocked me in pidgin.

Wretched bird. It even beat me in gin rummy.
Before the ginger cat ate it, I swear it said yummy.