Done-Flyin' Avian

Guts slimed offally across my window—a bay.
Bird nipped on fermented berries—lost its way.
What'll I find when I open it?
Bet I won't smile.
Pile some lime in an open pit—
That bird's erstwhile.

When I take the shade up, what am I going to find?
I smell it right now:
It has started to cook—it's braising in the sunshine.

The window shade's rustling; bird's about to be seen:
It looks like rabid drool; it gives me a ghastly mien.
I need to get bleach—disinfect it, to kill the pathogens.
After the bleach, maybe—liquid nitrogen

No doubt—that bird's time's up,
It will do no more flyin'.

Fermented cranberries are what blew its little mind.

No doubt—that bird's time's up,
It will do no more flyin'
Gettin' sick as I look,
But I have got to start pryin'.

Roofer man leaves a ladder leaning against a tree.
If I take it the bird'll be much easier to free.
I climb up it, the rungs braced against my pelvic bone.
Then I pour Drano on the bird, to clean my home.

I watch the carcass drop on the electric line.
It ramps up the amps—next thing I know, that bird is fryin'.