Days ago, during a muggy jog up towards the Cathedral, a soldier from D.C. Beaks, a gang of mockingbirds, assaulted me in front of the Australian Embassy, while a uniformed Secret Service officer ate a submarine sandwich. It is true, that I was wearing my gang colors, at the time: A Baltimore Orioles cap. The mockingbird pecked the oriole on my cap, then swooped again, leaving me Twice Pecked, Once from Cleveland. He proceeded to alight in a distant oak, and did what mockingbirds do, he mocked me. He discussed the importance of swing voters in the presidential race, he spoke to me in rusty French, he submitted some poems for publication. Just before I jogged out of earshot, he wondered why it wasn't he, a mockingbird, on the cap, when there are plenty of mimidae in Baltimore, and to boot, the oriole doesn't exactly frighten the blue jay, the tiger, the ranger, etcetera. He didn't say etcetera. He said, "Recession." He said, "Try pissing into a dixie cup during a Category Five Twister." Then his song faded.
A mockingbird could best a Finch, even one that nested in the Atticus. No, a mockingbird is not innocent, not the mockingbird I banged with, while the Nation of Australia did nil, and the Secret Service ate some Subway. Still, I agree with Harper Lee, in noting that a mockingbird should not be killed. To wit, we should kick its ass, instead, if only we could confront the thug where he alights. O, Lord: Why is there perch? There is perch, sayeth the Lord, to remind us of what a serpent is not. Why is there serpent? There is serpent, sayeth the Lord, to administer justice. Justice? What does the serpent know of justice? It knows not, sayeth the Lord. That's the point. O, Lord: I'm confused. Take a seasalt bath, sayeth the Lord. Engage in the utility of lavender. Lord: why didst thine mockingbird assault me? Mine mockingbird, sayeth the Lord, assaulteth even me, that pesky son of a gun, with those dilly wings and that dilly tail. Tis why I createth the hawk, but yesterday I didst espy the mockingbird routing the hawk. We must soaketh the brisket over-night, sayeth the Lord, then leave it beneath the distant oak, for the mockingbird dost judge our fate. Huzzah!