Wake-up Call

Nothing like the lark,
My morning bird is fiery and fearsome and fierce.
No honey sweet melody his,
No trilling concertos.
No grace.

Each a.m. at six 
He dips in for landing.
Even through the glass 
I hear him scratching on the sill.

His warm-up starts slow
Metallic squeal begins
Then moves to madness.

My body is nails on a chalkboard
Etching a jaw ache 
As teeth grind through song.



REVISED AS:

Preaching nothing like the lark,
My morning bird is fiery and fervent and fierce.
No treacle sweet melody his,
No trilling concertos.
No grace.

Sharp as shrapnel, each a.m. at six he dips to land.
Through the oozing glass I hear him
Scratching on the sill.

His warm-up starts the sermon,
Metal squeal his nod to prayer,
A move to madness.

My body's a monk clutching nailbed,
Etching a jaw ache as 
Teeth grind through song.