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When my world was newly ancient and my wealth caught every eye,

I consumed my golden richness to a lush manor nearby.

It was lavish,

It was costly,

(Although rather glum and ghostly),

For a chirping sound was noted,

While at night I listened closely.

So I strolled upstairs in soreness, since my witching hour was dead,

Unaware that trails of feathers vastly spread across my bed.

Hence it was inside my attic where a shadow made me start,

Seeing that a humming starling rang his chorus to my heart. 

Yet there was something about it, in that deep and chanting tune,

That made me vamoose in horror, grimace frosted like the Moon. 

Thus I ran back to my chamber and the covers screened my fright,

Until rays of scarlet sunlight spewed my anguish with their light.

Nonetheless the sequent vespers, as the tentacles of dreams

Poured into my safe enclosure, something chanted from within. 

It was humming.

It was ringing.

And to my pulsations stinging. 

Little starling, little starling,

Starling who never stops singing.

And he followed me in mornings,

Mornings chanting to my beat,

Beat of heart so weak and tattered,

Tattered to the starling's tweet. 

Tweet so humming,

Tweet so ringing,

And to my pulsations stinging,

Oh, you wicked, wicked starling!

Will you ever cease your singing?

And he followed me at midnight,

And in winter, spring and fall,

Falling, into crazy madness,

Humming, ringing, deathly bawl. 

And when I was reading gayly,

He would chant the words out loud,

And when I was cooking pastry,

He would chirp, eager and proud.

On account of execrations, I agreed it was enough, 

Such a cursing seemed a last straw I felt had to be played rough. 

Hitherto I grasped a scalpel as his tune began to sprout,

And stinging his little heart of stone I bloodstained its last way out. 

Tears of crimson splashed down to the wooden timber on the floor. 

As an awry fading starling closed his peak and sang no more.

My bed welcomed me in joy for I had proved myself that night,

And I fell asleep in comfort, breathing in waves of delight. 

But as I relished in wonders, something quivered in my dreams, 

Pouring into my enclosure, chanting softly from within. 

So I started into conscience, for my witching hour was dead,

And the trails of bloodstained feathers vastly spread across my bed. 

I opened my beak to holler, and a chirp escaped my throat, 

My wings beating to the tempo, of my soaking plumule coat.

I was humming,

I was ringing,

And to stony heartbeats stinging, 

For I was a little starling,

In my endless cursing singing. 

Addah Monoceros.